


In Name Alone

by ice_hot_13



Series: "The Way Home" Collection [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 111,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: Boba Fett has never been anything other than a legend; when he meets Din, he wants to be more.(Though part of a collection, this is a standalone work)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Series: "The Way Home" Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051688
Comments: 1142
Kudos: 865
Collections: Movies





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to this verse!! This fic is technically a companion fic to [The Way Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243271/chapters/58418161), as it's Boba's POV of that entire fic. However, it should be okay as a standalone fic, too!

It was over. Or, more accurately, it wasn’t going to happen.

Boba Fett lay on the sand, head still spinning from how violently he’d been expelled from the Sarlacc pit, heaved high into the air before he slammed down onto the sand far from the pit. And he just – lay there.

He was supposed to be dying. Every day of the last year, every _minute,_ the Sarlacc had been using one of its victims to speak to him, whispering all day and all night long. _A thousand years,_ it hissed, _it’ll keep you alive just to kill you slowly. How much have you suffered, throughout your life? That was just the beginning. Imagine reliving everything that hurt you, hundreds of times over._

It was the constant background noise to the voice in his own head, and that had been even worse, worse than anything the Sarlacc could tell him. Boba had been alone with his thoughts for a year, facing over and over again that this was the end. Boba had been a legend, that was _all_ he had been, and this was how he was going to die. Eventually. He couldn’t be scared, couldn’t be angry, couldn’t keep it up for a year, for a thousand. He could have handled death, but this was to die slowly, to die with more than enough time to think about how much he didn’t matter. He’d been the special one, and he’d never _fucking_ known why, and this just proved it: he wasn’t. It was a fluke, an accident, good or bad luck. He was going to die like a clone either way – pointlessly, as an afterthought, inevitably.

And then, he’d escaped.

It was night, maybe very early morning. Boba couldn’t make himself move, just lay on the cold sand with his head in his arms, trying to will himself to get up again. It wasn’t relief he felt, just an aching emptiness, the vertigo of the ground dropping out from under him and falling, falling. Everything he’d been expecting was gone, everything he’d had before was gone, and he was _nothing._ He was nothing, could feel nothing, had absolutely nothing left but his armor and his name, and how fucking fitting. His armor and his name had always been all there was _to_ him.

But he was Boba Fett, and he wasn’t going to die like this.

Boba forced himself to his feet and began walking. Tatooine had always felt like endless desert, but it seemed all too soon that a town loomed ahead. Maybe the desert had shrunk because of how desperately he wasn’t ready to arrive anywhere, just wanted to exist in this safer limbo, about to reenter his life but not knowing where, how, or why. Before he was ready, Mos Eisley swam out of the dark towards him. It was an awful place, barren and lonely, but maybe some of that was just Boba. He found everywhere lonely, whether because it was too empty, too crowded, too familiar, or too strange, something wrong with everywhere he went.

Like he was sleepwalking, he trudged through the outskirts of the town, skirting the very occasional passerby. He didn’t like being seen; that was something that the stories about him always seemed to get wrong. Why would he want anyone to _look_ at him? Know about him, recognize him, remember his name, but not while he was in front of them. He walked straight to the small port, and went through all the motions: took his blaster out of its holster, shot a security droid so it went crashing into the corner, wrenched open the access panel on a ship and overrode the controls so the doors would open. A small movement from one of the workshop windows caught his eye, but he ignored it. Let someone see him; they’d know who he was and wouldn’t stop him from stealing someone else’s ship. His own ship was surely long gone, and the twinge of regret he felt was old, and not directed towards the Slave IV. His father’s ship had been lost to him long ago, and each new loss was to remember the only one that had hurt, losing the ship his father had flown. Ships his father hadn’t ever been in didn’t matter as much. Boba was decades away from the places his father had been, from the life when Boba still had him; nothing he lost now could hurt.

The ship was a small, junky one, but it flew, allowed him to take it into orbit above Tatooine. More importantly, its communication systems worked. The system in his helmet had been unable to make any connections that deep underground – down in the emptiness, the endlessness, where he was going to die, slowly, eventually, not yet but always about to –

He couldn’t breathe. His heart was racing for no reason, and he couldn’t breathe, gasped for air and tried to fight off the shaking, hysterical fear that gripped him. For no reason, because there was nothing _here,_ he’d escaped and there was nothing to be afraid of, but he was shaking. He dropped his head into his hands, curled in on himself and tried to breathe, to force himself to stop but he couldn’t, _couldn’t._

He didn’t know how long it went on for, but when his breathing slowed, he blinked at the communications panel before him like he was seeing it for the first time. His lower back hurt like he’d been hunched over the communications panel for a long time. He straightened, winced, started sending messages as though his hands weren’t shaking, as though his breathing wasn’t still ragged. It was easier to focus on that than to try and figure out how he could go from fine to falling apart, seemingly for no reason. Just – altitude, maybe. Going from underground to being in orbit. That had to be it.

It took a few tries to reach the right people, but he got there. They still remembered his name. They hired him because of it, and that was enough for him. He didn’t care who he was supposed to kill, or what it paid; he cared that it didn’t sound essential or terribly important, and just sounded like tying up a loose end for convenience and not out of necessity, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He plotted a course for Mustafar, watched the stars blur into streaks.

“Right,” he mumbled, blinking at the view screen. He had to sleep. He knew he had to sleep. He’d passed the bed, a small cot tucked between cabinets, and the thought of the small space made something in his chest seize up. He could sleep in the cockpit, like he’d done a thousand times before.

Except – he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he flinched awake again. Even with all the lights turned on, it was too dark. The cockpit was too small, and the sight of the walls around him made his skin itch. How could he want so badly to sleep, but be unable to force himself to do it? He propped his elbows on the instrument panel, dropped his head into his hands. He still hadn’t taken off his helmet, hadn’t yet been able to make himself do that, either.

That would be an easier place to start, he thought. He shoved himself away from the panel and headed for the refresher. That was easier. Showering was easy, trimming his hair was harder because of the mirror, washing his clothes and working on repairs to his armor was easy. Once it was all over, though, when he was so tired he could barely stand, he was right back where he’d started – fitfully trying to sleep in the cockpit chair.

He woke up over and over, shaking and sweating and frantic for no reason. Mustafar wasn’t far from Tatooine, not when traveling through hyperspace, but the distance still felt endless. The cockpit felt smaller and smaller, and when Mustafar finally filled the viewscreen, he piloted the landing to the nearest clearing, didn’t care if he’d have to walk for miles to the last known location. He didn’t care, didn’t _care,_ just wanted to get out of the ship before it felt any smaller.

When he finally stepped out of the ship, he expected – relief, maybe. A lessening of the tightness in his chest. It didn’t come. Maybe that was because he knew this was a fool’s errand, walking into an ex-Admiral’s heavily guarded hiding place with only a blaster. But – he was still _himself._ He’d gotten out of worse, with less. He hadn’t – he hadn’t felt like this, back then. He didn’t know if that mattered. 

But this was temporary; this was because he’d spent a year underground and was still adjusting, adjusting to not being there anymore, to light and air and a future that wasn’t simultaneously endless and closing in around him – he was having trouble breathing, blamed the smoky air around him, though in the back of his mind he knew his helmet filtered all of it out, knew the smoke didn’t account for his suddenly racing heart. He was fine. He’d do this, he’d be himself again, he’d be _fine._

Walking through the lava fields felt like walking through the desert. Boba couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder. There was something _wrong_ with him, in a new way than before. He was just – dysfunctional, badly made, weak. There was nothing proving he was special and instead, here he was, falling apart.

He wouldn’t let himself fall apart. He’d finish this, he’d go back to being himself, the galaxy would remember his name again. He would be fine.

It took hours, before the buildings showed up in the distance. He should have landed the ship closer, he’d have to walk all this way back, afterwards; the thought of returning to the ship, to going back to the small space inside it and having to decide where to go next – he wouldn’t think about it. He would do this one job, and he’d feel like himself again, be able to get back on the ship and be fine again.

Gaining access wasn’t difficult. Neither was winding his way through empty, sooty corridors. Shooting out the cameras, sweeping a droid’s feet out from under it and shooting its chassis, shooting the three droids that appeared in the hallway afterwards, Boba almost didn’t register what was happening. It felt like he’d done it a thousand times before, but such a long time ago, and why _could_ he do it, anyways? Nothing about him was made especially for this, he had no particular talent, just skill from experience. Any clone could have done this, given the training.

A path led downwards, and Boba stopped at the top of the slope, fingers tightening on his blaster. The path led into the cave underground, and he didn’t – didn’t want to go _down,_ the direction made his stomach turn, he wanted badly to back up, but – he wouldn’t find himself, up there. Only underground.

There was activity in the cave. Droids, soldiers. The droids were easy; the soldiers were harder. Boba kept shooting as noise exploded throughout the cave; a mounted gun, more soldiers, and Boba kept turning, turning, being worked further down into the cave – he wasn’t even sure the Admiral was _here,_ but there was someone the soldiers were protecting, far in the corner, and he was hoping that was his target. Black rock crowded into the cave, lava trailing down the walls and bubbling up from the ground, and when Boba turned again, he spotted the steep drop-off, took a stumbling step backwards though he was nowhere near it.

Shots bounced off his armor without hurting him, but he was slowing down – the soldiers were yelling, he heard his own name but most times, when people screamed his name, it wasn’t meant for him to respond to. Two soldiers got in close, and Boba fought back, but – he miscalculated, kept miscalculating, went high when he should have gone low, dove to the ground but a soldier stomped on his ribs, had his shooting arm wrenched behind his back and snapped, maybe by a soldier, maybe by a droid, he couldn’t tell anymore, they were all everywhere – but he was – the dark pit in the corner caught his eye, and – and he wasn’t here, he was underground again, it was dark and he was going to relive all the suffering he’d ever been through, he was going to die just like all the rest –

There was a brief moment of searing pain, and whoever was holding him released him abruptly as they ducked from gunfire; Boba’s helmet moved loosely when he jerked away, easily knocked off, and when he grabbed for a soldier’s gun with his undamaged arm, he managed to get off a few shots before another soldier grabbed it, jerked it backwards at him to get him to release it. There was a bright burst of pain in his mouth, and he automatically grabbed for his helmet on the ground, managed to get it back on – the mounted gun swung his direction again, fired, and it caught him squarely in the chest. Boba slammed to the ground.

There was yelling. Receding footsteps. They thought he was dead, he thought distantly. He could feel blood pooling at the back of his head. He should get up, but it was like he was back in the desert, like this was just another pit that expelled him, just another place to die. It hadn’t mattered anyways, he thought. It didn’t matter if he returned to his former glory, if the galaxy remembered his name again; he was still going to die like this. He was still nothing, that had never changed. No matter what he’d done, it didn’t make sense that he’d been the one who survived, no reason it should have been him and not anyone else. His name was forgotten; he’d already died.

\--

“Hey.” Something nudged Boba’s shoulder. The ground shook beneath him, and Boba winced when it jerked him into sliding down the slope. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. His head thudded with pain. “I’m getting you out of here,” he heard a man’s voice only distantly, before he was turned onto his back; the movement made him gasp with the sudden pain in his chest.

A Mandalorian stood over him. Of course, of course a fucking Mandalorian would find him, and Boba didn’t know what would happen to him now, but he couldn’t fight back. How fitting, that a Mandalorian would find him and finally kill him.

“You’ll be fine,” the Mandalorian said, which Boba wouldn’t expect to hear from the man about to kill him. “I’m taking you back to my ship, and you’ll be fine. You’ll live,” he said. Boba reached for him, tried to grab onto his wrist. He didn’t _want_ that, didn’t that matter? What was he going to do, if he survived this? His viewsceen was trying to give him information – days had passed, his oxygen levels were low, he didn’t care about any of it.

“Don’t need,” Boba tried to say. He didn’t need to _live,_ even if someone had come to save him. No one had ever saved him before. No one had ever come for him.

“Just shut up.” The Mandalorian shook his head, and Boba let go of him. That sounded more familiar. Boba didn’t want to be saved, and not by a Mandalorian. They’d never fucking wanted him, why would one want to save him? The Mandalorian pulled Boba up, tried to get him to stay that way, but Boba’s vision was filled with darkness when he tried to put weight on his arm. Everything hurt. Why did everything always have to _hurt?_ His body was broken, and he _ached_ with the emptiness he felt. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be anywhere, he should have died in that pit, in this one, it didn’t matter where he died, it never mattered where clones died –

Boba drifted in and out of consciousness. The Mandalorian wouldn’t leave him alone, lifted Boba up and put him over one shoulder. It was careful, almost gentle; his hand was on the back of Boba’s thigh to keep him from sliding off, and there was no roughness to his grip, not even a carelessness. Boba sucked in pained breaths, felt himself drifting. He could hear his own spurs as his boots bumped against the Mandalorian’s chest. He was _carrying_ Boba. Who the fuck ever did that? No one touched him. He held Boba tightly, and despite how much pain Boba was in and how he kept drifting into darkness and back again, the Mandalorian’s careful grip on him was grounding. Boba didn’t care where the Mandalorian was taking him. 

“What the hell were you doing here, anyways,” the Mandalorian was muttering under his breath. He had a deep voice. Low, really. Rough. Like he was growling the entire time. “You didn’t even accomplish anything.” Like he had to tell Boba that; Boba never accomplished anything. Nothing he did mattered. It was never enough.

He drifted for a while, not bothering to check where they were going, even when they left the building. He didn’t care. Everything hurt, except for how the Mandalorian was holding him. Boba didn’t know if he was being saved or taken, but at least this part was almost comforting. He was slumped against the Mandalorian’s shoulder, feeling the broadness of his back, and the careful way he held onto Boba, trying not to hurt him. Boba didn’t want to be put down again, left alone with the pain radiating from his chest, his arm, his head – if the Mandalorian took his hands off him, Boba thought he might crumple entirely.

“Come on, nearly there.” He hoisted Boba onto his shoulder higher, and the jolt of pain it elicited made Boba gasp. His ribs were probably broken. Lung, too. Not broken, but – whatever happened to lungs. It felt wrong, anyways. His visor flashed warnings at him about his oxygen intake being lower than normal. “Sorry,” the Mandalorian mumbled. His voice was so _deep_. He squeezed Boba’s thigh very gently, as though in absent-minded apology and Boba found himself forcing back helpless, overwhelmed tears at the feeling of it. He was being so _gentle_ with Boba. 

He brought Boba to a ship. Boba flinched at the enclosing walls as he was carried inside, but then the Mandalorian was taking him in further, shifting Boba off his shoulder until he slumped against a wall, sitting on a ledge. Boba’s head tilted against the wall, and he tried to take a deep breath. The Mandalorian was looking at him; surely, he recognized Boba. Everyone could, for all the good that did. Didn’t make him mean anything. Without the Mandalorian touching him, Boba felt suddenly overly vulnerable, fragile, like he might shatter apart without the comforting weight of the Mandalorian against him.

The Mandalorian stepped away, came back with an assortment of bandages and bacta spray. That made sense; no use delivering Boba in this condition to whoever wanted him dead. If he died en-route, the bounty would be less. The bounty – the bounty. That was what this was. That was why he’d come. How the fuck had Boba thought he was being _saved,_ even for a moment? He was being turned in for a bounty. He’d thought he was being saved.

“I need to take your armor off,” the Mandalorian said. “Your helmet.” Boba tried to shake his head, squeezed his eyes shut at the pain it elicited. Of course, the Mandalorian would think this mattered. As if Boba wore the helmet on principle. He just didn’t want anyone to see his face. He didn’t want to see it, himself.

“I don’t care.” Speaking was hard. Breathing was still hard. He was pretty sure the soldier who’d jabbed the rifle into his face had broken his teeth, and he could taste blood. He wasn’t being saved. The Mandalorian reached for Boba’s helmet, the broken latch falling open easily.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Boba shut his eyes and tried to breathe, just didn’t have it in him to defend his lack of a creed. He didn’t care who saw his face, even if he preferred they didn’t. It wasn’t his. Not only his, anyways. The Mandalorian lifted Boba’s helmet off, and said nothing. Boba opened his eyes, to find the Mandalorian looking at him, head tilted slightly. Was the Mandalorian recognizing him? Boba recoiled at the thought, closed his eyes again. He’d thought the Mandalorian had looked at him and still wanted to save him, how unbearably pathetic of him.

“How long were you there?” the Mandalorian asked, and Boba frowned. Did it matter, if it hadn’t been a year, a thousand?

“Days.”

The Mandalorian started taking off Boba’s armor. He moved gingerly, removing armor and applying bandages, using the bacta spray that smelled strongly like disinfectant. Boba kept drifting away, but he wanted to stay, despite the pain, tried to fight the darkness at the edges of his vision; the Mandalorian’s gloved hands were so big, touching him so incredibly gently. If moving wasn’t nearly impossible, Boba might have leaned into it; it was all he could do to swallow back the desperate little sounds that threatened to escape him, as the Mandalorian touched his jaw to tilt his head slightly, held Boba’s elbow in his hand as he set the broken bone. In the haze of pain that clouded everything, his touch was steadying, the only clear thing left. It had made Boba think he was being _saved._

When he’d finished patching up what he could, he left Boba there, going up into the cockpit. Boba closed his eyes; he could almost still feel the Mandalorian’s hands on him, impossibly gentle. Even if he wasn’t actually saving Boba, because no one ever saved clones even if Boba managed to forget that in the wake of Din’s gentle treatment of him, what he’d done still mattered. Boba felt, for a moment, saved. 


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Boba slept. He flinched awake more than a few times, but would slip back into sleep, lulled by the painkillers pulling him downwards. Every time, he fell back into the same dream – he was lost in a dark building, and the floor was desert sand, but the air smelled like disinfectant. He couldn’t tell if he was getting farther away, or going in the wrong direction, just the same purposeless wandering, every direction somewhere he didn’t want to go.

“Hey.” The Mandalorian’s voice jerked him from sleep again, and Boba sat up, groaning at the protest of pain from his arm. He was in the Mandalorian’s ship, in his bed, under a blanket, and it was possibly the most disorienting place he’d ever woken up to. “Let’s go. You need a real doctor.” That seemed unnecessary, for a bounty he was turning in, who _did_ things like that?

“Who _are –”_ Boba asked, but the words were swallowed up by a cough he couldn’t stop. The lung, probably, whatever had happened to it. He wanted to go back to sleep, wanted to stay in this strange, suspended moment for as long as he could.

“Get ready,” the Mandalorian said, though despite the clipped words, his tone wasn’t harsh. He left for the cockpit again, and Boba slowly put his armor back on, wincing and moving as carefully as he could. He didn’t know why the Mandalorian cared to have him in full health before turning him in; Boba wouldn’t have. He wasn’t a Mandalorian, though. Maybe they did things like that, Boba wouldn’t fucking know.

When the Mandalorian returned, he didn’t offer any further explanation. “Let’s get this over with,” Boba muttered under his breath, though it was stupid to feel upset at having to leave; it wasn’t his to keep, and as soon as this was over and he was turned in for a bounty, this bizarre interlude in his life would be over. There was no use wishing it would go on for longer, he didn’t belong here.

They’d landed on a planet Boba didn’t recognize, and it must have been very late at night, given how deserted the town was. Boba followed the Mandalorian, wondered if he should be trying to escape, fight back, anything. He didn’t know what he should do; maybe if he stuck around, the Mandalorian would touch him again, with those big, gentle hands.

The Mandalorian brought him to a set of stairs that led downward; Boba wanted to resist, to draw back, but the Mandalorian was walking down the stairs, and Boba had no choice but to follow. Down, down, and the stairs opened onto a damp corridor underground. They continued further, until the Mandalorian turned a corner and brought him into a large room with a forge at the center. Boba leaned against the doorway, tried to take deeper breaths; the tunnel was feeling smaller, and he couldn’t see the entrance anymore. When his breathing quickened, his chest seized with pain from his damaged lung, and he leaned heavily into the wall, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to – to _stop,_ to just stop.

He looked up, tried to find something else to focus on. Another Mandalorian was there, an armorer who bent over a workbench, and Boba pushed himself off the wall, watching. So this was some kind of Mandalorian hideout. Filled with Mandalorians. He wanted to crumple, didn’t want to be recognized now. They would see him as something else entirely. Boba didn’t want to _be here._

“I didn’t expect you so soon.” The armorer’s voice was female, and concerned. Boba’s Mandalorian looked over his shoulder back at Boba.

“I needed help, but couldn’t risk anyone finding out,” the Mandalorian said. The Armorer looked past him, and Boba could sense it, the moment she noticed him, like she was steeling herself against an intruder. It was all there, in the lift of her helmet, the set of her shoulders. Boba could always tell.

“Why have you brought this –” A pause. Boba could think of several descriptors she could use. “What is it you seek?”

“He needs a doctor, and I don’t think anyone should know he’s alive. It would put us both in danger.” It was the most Boba had heard him speak yet; his voice was almost soft, a rumbling sort of gentleness to it. Boba hoped he would keep talking.

“I didn’t realize he was alive. I am surprised he would accept help from us, or think he deserved to receive it,” the Armorer said, which was a fucking joke. Of course Boba didn’t deserve it. He didn’t even know what was happening, he was just following the man who had picked him up off of Mustafar and carried him to safety. He didn’t _care_ what was happening; if his Mandalorian brought him here to be treated, he’d go along with it. There wasn’t anything else to do.

“He’s still a –” Boba’s Mandalorian said.

“He is not.” The Armorer’s sharp words didn’t surprise Boba, but the Mandalorian’s had. Did he think _Boba_ was a Mandalorian? The idea was laughable. If Boba was younger, he might have felt like sobbing, that a real Mandalorian had mistaken _him_ for one. Was that the only reason he’d brought Boba here? If he found out Boba wasn’t really a Mandalorian, would the gentleness vanish? The Armorer was already telling him that Boba wasn’t, why didn’t he seem to believe her? “But you are,” she said to the Mandalorian, “and if this is what you want, I can help you.”

She strode past Boba without looking at him, and led the way down another passageway. The Mandalorian followed her, and Boba trailed after him. It seemed like the safest thing to do, in this dark, endless tunnel. She led them through several turns, and eventually left them alone outside a room.

The Mandalorian was looking at Boba; Boba wanted to duck away. He didn’t know how he could feel like an imposter when everyone here clearly knew he didn’t belong, but maybe it was because this Mandalorian thought Boba was one of them, in some distant way. He had no idea.

When the Armorer brought them into the next room, it was to meet the doctor, who said “look who’s come crawling back, if you could even call it that” at the sight of Boba.

“Enough. I’ve agreed to help, so we will help.” The Armorer wasn’t sneering as the doctor had been, but her voice carried the same disdain, somehow. Boba was pointed to a cot in the corner and he sank down onto it, suddenly felt so, so tired. How could this be what he had to face, after everything? He should have just been allowed to die on Mustafar.

“Boba Fett,” the doctor was scoffing as he opened cabinets, removing instruments with a sharpness that implied he wanted to use them to do damage to Boba. “Our greatest shame.”

Of course. Boba closed his eyes, tried to breathe. He wanted to leave, but he didn’t know anywhere to go. It was ridiculous, that they considered him _their_ shame, when he so clearly wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t anyone’s shame, that was the fucking _point_ of clones. They belonged to no one because they came from nothing. No past, no culture, no legacy, just made in a lab so they could be used. Just because he’d been used as a son didn’t mean he _was_ one, and just because his father had once been a Mandalorian didn’t mean anything about his clone.

“Don’t –” his Mandalorian began, warning in his voice, although Boba didn’t know what he could be doing wrong. Maybe he was afraid Boba would do something in retaliation, but Boba was far beyond reacting to what they said about him. The Mandalorian left the room, and Boba wished he hadn’t.

The doctor worked mostly in silence, though he openly scoffed when Boba removed his helmet. “To be without a creed is to be without honor,” he said, as Boba set his helmet aside. Boba always wanted to ask why it mattered to them; their faces were their own, they didn’t have to worry about being grouped in with anyone else and coming up short.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Boba asked, “Obviously I have no honor to worry about preserving.”

It was an unpleasant but productive experience. The doctor properly set Boba’s broken arm, gave him painkillers for his broken ribs and fixed the collapsed lung; the head injury needed a stronger bacta spray, but eventually the doctor pronounced his work finished.

“Come,” he said, “I don’t know what he’s planning to do with you, but I’ll leave him to it.” He said this sharply, as though Boba was in on something with the Mandalorian; Boba didn’t know what was happening either, but when he was brought back to the first room, he was relieved to see his Mandalorian waiting. Maybe part of him had been afraid to find himself alone here, afraid that he’d already seen the Mandalorian for the last time in his life. “He’ll be fine, providing you get him out of here quickly,” the doctor told Boba’s Mandalorian, “I doubt anyone else will take kindly to seeing him in the covert. He doesn’t belong here.”

Of course Boba didn’t. He didn’t belong anywhere, and this was the last place he’d think to try, and how dare this asshole assume Boba would? Did he think Boba was that stupid, that desperate? Boba had made a name for himself, and he didn’t represent them, he didn’t belong with them. They hadn’t _wanted him._ “I haven’t done anything,” Boba snarled, couldn’t stop himself. “Not to any of you.”

“Listen, traitor,” the doctor whipped around, and his hand was around Boba’s throat before Boba could react. “If you think I won’t undo all the work I just did, you’re mistaken. How _dare_ you wear our armor as if you come from our tradition! All you come from is disgrace.”

 _Their_ armor, and Boba wanted to kill him, because his armor wasn’t from their tradition, not anymore. It was his father’s, whatever that meant, and it wasn’t theirs, it was all Boba had, and he hardly had even that. He lunged at the doctor, but he’d barely made contact before his Mandalorian was intervening, pulling Boba off the doctor easily.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian said to the doctor, and he pulled Boba’s arms behind his back to keep him from diving forward again; Boba’s knees buckled slightly at the sudden pain in his recently broken forearm, but when the Mandalorian responded by loosening his grip immediately, Boba realized he must have forgotten about the injury, hadn’t been using it deliberately like Boba would have. Again, his hand gave a tiny squeeze of apology, and Boba’s knees felt weak again for an entirely different reason. “For healing him. I appreciate it. I found him, so I felt – responsible. He was in my care.”

“I understand,” the Armorer said, and the doctor scoffed. The Mandalorian still hadn’t let go of Boba’s wrists, but his fingers were wrapped around them more delicately now. He led Boba ahead of him down the hallway, then let go. Boba pulled forward reflexively, maybe just because he couldn’t lean into it. _In my care,_ his Mandalorian had said, and Boba felt a desperate longing for that to actually be true.

Upstairs, the light sky seemed to indicate it was midday and the town had grown busy. The Mandalorian seemed to know the town well, easily leading Boba on a path that kept them away from almost all the busy courtyards and streets. Boba didn’t know what he was supposed to do now, but the Mandalorian didn’t look back, like he fully expected Boba to be following him, and so Boba did.

They reached the bay where the Mandalorian’s ship was docked, but a man stood in the entrance, looking like he’d been expecting them, or maybe just the Mandalorian. He was the current head of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild; Boba liked to keep updated on who was heading the organization, mostly so he’d know who to contact when he needed to semi-violently suggest they steer clear of his bounties. Boba couldn’t remember if he’d contacted this man before, could only vaguely remember holding someone at knifepoint outside the Guild. Had that been last year? Two years ago?

“Mando!” the man called, “I heard your ship landed and I –” he stopped. “Well. When I heard someone had gone to Mustafar, I’d assumed it was _you,_ Mando, and I had to see your ship for myself, I was so sure you were dead. Is he the one who actually took the bounty?” There was a venom in his voice usually reserved for people who had met Boba in person before. Maybe that had been him, that Boba had menaced over a bounty. 

“What’d you hear about it?” Boba asked. The bounty – how could Boba have forgotten? He was supposed to have _done_ something, not just failed. Surely there would be repercussions coming, eventually. 

“That some foolish bounty hunter died on Mustafar. What’s going on, Mando? The New Republic knows someone took the bounty, and if they find out the bounty hunter who drove the admiral into hiding elsewhere is still alive –”

“I’m alive,” the Mandalorian’s voice was sharp. “And I still have a job to finish. I’ll be back.” He strode past the man, lowered the ramp of the ship and climbed it.

Was Boba the job he had to finish? Surely if someone had put a bounty on Boba, they wouldn’t have gone through the _Guild,_ Boba was completely sure about that. And if the Mandalorian was a Guild bounty hunter, then Boba – he wasn’t a bounty. This wasn’t about a bounty.

“Well?” the Mandalorian barked, voice dipping even deeper than usual, and Boba all-but bolted after him onto the ship. If he wasn’t a bounty – what was he? The Mandalorian had to know that Boba wasn’t a Mandalorian now, after the others’ clear rejection of him. And he wasn’t a bounty. He was _nothing,_ so what could the Mandalorian possibly want with him? 

The Mandalorian didn’t offer any answers. He went ahead to the cockpit, and Boba lingered below deck as the ship took off. Maybe he was supposed to stay out of the way, but when it started to feel claustrophobic, he climbed the ladder. The Mandalorian didn’t turn when he entered, and Boba took it as invitation to sit in the second seat. It was better up here, even if they sat in silence.

So Boba wasn’t a bounty. He was growing more and more sure of that, because all the people who wanted him dead would have hired someone through their own channels, and would have laughed at the idea of a Guild bounty hunter taking him on. And yet – it had been easy for the Mandalorian. Boba had made it easy for him, in any case. But if he wasn’t turning Boba in, what could the Mandalorian possibly _want_ with him?

“Who _are_ you?” Boba asked, after hours of silence. It just didn’t make sense, he couldn’t think of any reason someone would come to save him. That didn’t happen, to clones. No one saved them. Boba reached up and unlatched his helmet, lifting it off. The Mandalorian had seen his face already, anyways; the damage was done. He looked at Boba for a long moment that made Boba feel scrutinized, overly seen.

“Din.” Weren’t they supposed to keep their names secret, like their faces? It was yet another reason why Boba had made such a point of spreading his own name across the galaxy, because if they didn’t want him, he wouldn’t live by a single one of their rules. And yet, this Mandalorian was telling Boba his name.

Din turned away, back towards the front of the cockpit. Boba wanted to hear his voice again.

“Why were you there? Did you know I was there?”

“I’d guessed.”

“What did you go there to do?” Boba asked, because he couldn’t think of a single reason why. There was nothing on Mustafar, and surely Din wouldn’t have even been offered the Admiral’s bounty.

“What about you? Why were _you_ there? You had to have known it was impossible,” Din said. “Did you really think you could do it? And even then, what if you did? Did you think the Empire wouldn’t kill you for it? You can’t possibly think you were important enough for them to let you live after that.” It was probably the most Boba had heard him say at once. He swallowed, tried not to nod in automatic agreement at Din’s words. Boba wasn’t important enough; he knew, he knew.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” Boba traced over the dent in the top of his helmet. Durasteel. That was his fucking tradition, not Beskar. The Mandalorians would kill him before they let him wear their Beskar, so like everything else about him, it was a replaceable copy. 

“What else to do? How about _not_ taking the biggest, most idiotic bounty in the parsec? How about literally anything else?” Din said, and how fucking dare he? What _else_ was Boba supposed to do? Was he supposed to climb out of that pit, and – and – his heart was racing again, and he was so _lost,_ what did Din think he _should_ have done? What was left?

“I have nothing,” Boba spat, “and am nothing, other than my greatest bounty.” He stood, yanked his helmet back on. No need to remind himself just how little he had to call his own. “You should get some sleep. I was in your bed all night, so. I’m sure you didn’t sleep well.” He waited until Din stood and moved to the doorway. He was big, and though Boba was slightly taller, Din was more broad; looking at his shoulders made Boba remember being carried by him. He was such a mess, so ready to crumple at the slightest reminder of something that didn’t hurt him; what was he supposed to _do,_ now?

“What about you?” Din asked, his voice a rumble, carrying none of the reprimanding tone it had had a moment earlier. What did he care, if Boba took Imperial bounties that could get him killed? None of this made any sense to Boba.

“All I’ve done is sleep. I’m fine,” Boba insisted, and Din seemed to accept this, and left the cockpit. Boba was so tired, he thought he might fall asleep in his chair; if so, he didn’t want Din to see the way he kept jerking awake, expecting to see nothing but darkness, a small space he couldn’t escape, the place where he was going to eventually, eventually die – he squeezed his eyes shut, sank into the seat Din had vacated. He was fine. He would be fine. He would be himself again, eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

Din left Boba alone in his ship. It was a baffling move; Boba sat in Din’s chair, watching him walk away across the vast field of ice. He was presumably going to collect a bounty, and Boba didn’t know what he’d expected to happen, because he couldn’t see Din either inviting him along or abandoning him on the planet, but somehow, it still wasn’t this. Boba watched him until he wasn’t visible anymore, and then kept watching anyways. Din – he was coming back, Boba was pretty sure. He’d left his ship, after all. He wasn’t just leaving Boba alone indefinitely.

And even when he came back – what was Boba supposed to do then? What was he _doing?_ He had nothing. No ship, no jobs, no plan, no – well, he’d never had much more than that, but now he had none of it. He was just blindly following around the man who had saved him, waiting on his ship for him as he worked, clinging to Din because he was so soft and so gentle. What kind of plan was that? Boba put his head down on his arms atop the panel, sighed out a long breath. He just wanted to stay near Din. He knew there had to be something that happened next, some next place to go, but – but nowhere else felt like this, felt like Din.

Finally Din did return; Boba watched him climb out of a speeder, leading a Mythrol ahead of him. He’d _known_ Din would come back, he’d known, but seeing him made Boba breathe a little easier anyways. When Boba heard the ramp hiss open below, he remembered he’d taken Din’s seat and stood quickly, moved to the passenger seat. Footsteps approached, and the Mythrol’s chatting floated up to Boba.

“Whatever they’re paying you,” he was saying, and Boba really did hate talkative bounties, although granted, he’d never had that many. “I can triple that. You could really treat yourself to some ship upgrades, or hey, what about a maintenance droid? That would –” the Mythrol’s voice trailed off when he appeared at the top of the ladder. Boba stood, watched the Mythrol grow inexplicably smug. “Did they send _you_ to come get me?” he asked. “Am I that big a bounty?” Din appeared behind him, stepping off the ladder.

“Just sit down,” he pointed to the passenger seat. “And no.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

“Shut up.”

Din sat in his own chair and began their takeoff, the Mythrol turning to Boba with interest instead. “Did _you_ capture _him?”_ he asked, “I thought you were dead!”

Din looked over his shoulder, and he said something Boba couldn’t seem to understand, the words refusing to make sense to him; it took a moment, but Boba realized that the language must have been Mando’a. His heart sank, and a gnawing emptiness reared its head in his chest.

Mando’a, of course, because Din seemed to have the bizarre belief that Boba was a Mandalorian. It was a common mistake; Boba’s father had been a Mandalorian, once. The only word Boba knew in Mandalorian was the word for _exile,_ because that was all his father had been. The Mandalorians had turned his father away, and his father had told him not to beg for acceptance from people who didn’t want them, but then he’d died, and he’d never told Boba what to do when there was no one left in the galaxy who wanted him.

Boba muttered a non-response and left the cockpit. He hated the sound of Mando’a, even in Din’s growling voice.

Of course, the Mythrol landed himself in trouble. Chatty ones always did. Boba watched from the lower level as the Mythrol crept up the ladder and moved to the opposite side of the landing from the cockpit. A few moments later, Din followed, his steps silent. Boba waited, then climbed the ladder to see what was going to happen next. He found Din standing before a block of carbonite, the Mythrol’s shape clear.

“I’d never bother with his bounty,” Boba said, as though it wasn’t obvious. Really, he just wanted to start speaking in Basic, so Din wouldn’t feel compelled to begin in Mando’a again. “This is more portable now,” he said, leaning in to study the equipment. It was much sleeker than what he’d used on Solo.

“It’s convenient. And now he definitely won’t talk,” Din said; apparently, he hated chatty bounties as much as Boba did.

“I’m sure someone’s already talking.” Someone always was. It was what kept Boba relevant, differentiated.

Din sighed, left for the cockpit. Boba lingered, running his fingers along the carbonite and looking at the lined-up sheets of it. It felt vaguely familiar, like a place he’d been long ago and could no longer remember the precise layout of, even though it had only been a year. But – a dark year. Dark and damp and – he shuddered at the thought, drawing back from the carbonite.

Once they landed on Nevarro, Din left Boba on the ship again. “I’m going to collect his bounty,” Din had said, and then he’d just _left_. Boba took Din’s chair so he could see out the viewscreen, watched Din stride across the bay and out of sight. Workers were still unloading the carbonite slabs; Din didn’t seem to care much about his ship, just went about his business and didn’t seem to treat it like an extension of himself. Boba hadn’t allowed anyone on the Slave IV. It had felt like – like the last safe place. He vehemently wanted to keep out anyone who might disrupt it, endlessly paranoid that someone would look at it, see where he lived and understand something about himself he didn’t want them to see. 

Din was gone for a while, so long that Boba started to feel closed-in, overly surrounded. He left the cockpit, set about dismantling and cleaning his blaster; he needed something to do, something to obsessively focus on so his thoughts couldn’t wander. Din had a set of tools in the weaponry locker, and Boba started trying to remove the biggest dent in the blaster; he couldn’t remember if this was what that soldier had used to break his teeth, but he didn’t think so. Everything about that day felt vaguely blurry, except for Din. Boba could practically still feel Din’s hands on him, lifting him off the ground. 

When Din finally returned, Boba felt some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. The silence’s heaviness lifted, even though Din hadn’t yet spoken. He stood watching Boba for a moment, and Boba kept glancing in his direction; Din had a presence Boba couldn’t ignore, and maybe it was the armor, or maybe it was just how broad his shoulders were, how he stood still and watched.

“Here,” Din eventually spoke, “it’s Beskar.” He held out a gauntlet of glinting silver Beskar. Boba stared at it, at this Mandalorian offering him their traditional metal, and he felt something within him break. It might have been his heart, he couldn’t be sure, but it felt like Din was offering his hand and letting Boba take it.

“Oh,” Boba breathed, all he could manage, reached for it gingerly, fingertips brushing Din’s hand. Din slipped past him, and Boba heard him climb the ladder but didn’t turn around, still staring at the piece of armor in his hands. He still didn’t know what Din was doing _,_ why he was still allowing Boba to be here, but this felt like he was saying _stay_ in a language Boba could actually understand.

It – it gave Boba more boldness than he should have had, really. When they’d landed on some unknown planet and Din was collecting the gear he would be taking, Boba offered, “I could come with you,” as though they were – were partners, or something. Boba had never been anyone’s partner.

“Your track record isn’t great,” Din said, and Boba flinched. “No.”

Of course. Boba didn’t know what he’d been thinking, really. He’d never been anyone’s partner, because no one trusted him. And he _deserved_ that, he knew, he was what he had done, but Din didn’t want him and it _hurt._

“I’ve killed things you’ve never even _seen_ before, my track record is the best in the galaxy,” Boba snapped back. “You think I couldn’t handle whatever this is?” He stepped closer to Din, right up behind him, just wanted to – to feel _intimidating_ again, not pathetic and left behind and _unwanted –_ Din spun, pinned Boba to the wall with a hand in the center of his chest. Boba’s helmet banged back against the metal. Din loomed close over him, big hand splayed on Boba’s chest, and Boba bit back a whine. Din was angry with him, didn’t _want_ him, and he certainly wouldn’t want Boba to be getting turned on by this, whimpering for him. He was pathetic, so pathetic, but Din was big and broad and standing so _close_ to him.

“You get off this ship, you’re staying on this planet,” Din snarled. He kept his hand on Boba’s chest. It wasn’t gentle, and Boba felt furiously helpless in the face of how wrongly he’d judged the situation. Of course Din didn’t want him to come. Whatever he was doing with Boba, it wasn’t asking for his help. It wasn’t _wanting him,_ either.

“Fine,” Boba spat. Din released him, and Boba jerked away, yanked himself up the ladder and stormed into the carbonite storage area. He should have known a Mandalorian wouldn’t want him. Not even this one, who had saved him, who was the first person to ever save him. He stayed upstairs until he heard Din leave, and then he went back to the tool bench; his hands were shaking, and maybe if he had something to do, he wouldn’t notice it so much.

The silence felt crushing, but he couldn’t leave; anywhere else, anywhere Din wouldn’t eventually come back to, would be endlessly silent. Boba tried to focus on cleaning his reassembled blaster, but his fingers kept slipping off the barrel and it was already clean, anyways. How had he thought Din would want him there?

He’d been prepared for a much longer stretch of solitude – well, not prepared, exactly, but resigned, dreading. When the ramp opened, he flinched at the sound, but forced himself not to watch Din’s approach. He’d likely forgotten something, and it definitely wasn’t Boba.

When Din appeared, he just stood there. Watching. He was incredibly still, and the longer he watched, the more Boba felt like he would overflow with whatever he was feeling, something he couldn’t identify. It was probably because he was offended Din didn’t want his help.

“Come with me,” Din said.

“Not my job,” Boba sneered. His hands had stopped shaking, though. He half hoped Din would pin him against the wall again, though he didn’t sound angry enough to do it, and if he did it in a way that matched his voice, it would be firm but gentle, slow. Boba shivered at the thought. 

“Come anyways.” Din started to leave, but paused. Boba lifted his head, watching. Din – he said something, something Boba couldn’t understand because it was Mando’a again, but his deep voice was quiet, so quiet, and it softened Boba’s fury enough to inform him that what he’d been feeling was just hurt. He had no idea what Din was saying to him, but it was soft, and it made the hurt lessen, just a little. It sounded like an apology, like maybe Din hadn’t meant for it to feel like he wasn’t trusting Boba. It was soft enough to mean that.

Boba followed him. He grabbed a spare rifle and his blaster, and followed Din, because Din’s rumbling voice was the most soothing sound amongst the silence, and Boba needed to be near him. Din was walking across the empty clearing, and Boba followed him until they reached their destination. It took a moment for Boba to absorb the scene before him: two blurrgs on a floating cart, and a third blurrg with an ugnaught apparently waiting for them. For the life of him, Boba couldn’t figure out what had gone on.

“What the hell happened here?” Boba asked. The ugnaught was looking at him disdainfully, a familiar expression. Boba had wanted to feel intimidating again and here it was; with Din also looking at him, though, it felt shameful.

“I recognize you.” At least his recognition was the standard hatred; Boba had earned that, alone.

“He’s here to help me,” Din said, and the ugnaught seemed to accept that, turning his blurrg and leading them away.

Somehow, it didn’t feel like crossing the desert. It should have, the landscape red and the sun burning overhead, but Boba didn’t feel quite the same. Din was beside him, silent but present, and the sunlight glinting off Boba’s new Beskar gauntlet was a continual reminder: in some way, he belonged to this Mandalorian.

The ugnaught brought them to a moisture farm, invited them into his tent home. Boba followed wordlessly; he used to go everywhere alone, he thought, as he took a seat beside Din on a low stool, he used to be everywhere alone, and he could still remember how it felt so acutely that this felt almost deceptive, seductive in its differences.

“I am Kuiil,” the ugnaught said, stood before them and somehow managed to look much taller than he actually was. “Many have passed through. They seek the same one as you.”

“Did you help them?” Din asked; Boba wondered what it was they were seeking. He didn’t even know why Din had come back for him. Guilt? Din was sitting so close to him, Boba’s knee almost touched his. The memory of Din shoving him into the wall made him withdraw. Whatever it was, it wasn’t because Din _liked_ him, surely.

“Yes,” Kuiil said, “they died.” Boba snorted.

“Well, then I don’t know if I want your help,” he said. It was ridiculous, really, the entire situation. He never needed help. No one ever offered help. Din had been on this planet for twenty minutes, and here they were, asking and receiving.

“You do,” Kuiil said, “I can show you to the encampment.”

“What’s your cut?”

“Half.”

“Half the bounty to guide?” Boba shook his head. “Seems a bit steep.”

“Half the blurrg you helped capture.”

“The blurrg?” Din repeated, with a surprisingly candid amount of disbelief. “You can keep them both.”

“No, you will need one. To ride. The way is impossible to pass without a blurrg mount.”

“I don’t know how to ride blurrg,” Din said flatly. Boba was mildly surprised; Mandalorians were known as beast tamers. Din would probably learn easily, in any case. Boba had learned out of necessity; most things he’d learned were out of necessity. 

“I have spoken.” Kuiil nodded to them, and then left the tent, apparently expecting them to follow him. Din sat in silence for a moment longer.

 _Why did you come back for me,_ Boba wanted to ask him, but he didn’t know why Din had come for him in the first place, and this didn’t feel any easier to answer. What if he didn’t like the reason? Din stood, and followed Kuiil outside.

Kuiil set about teaching Din to ride the blurrg. Boba lingered outside the fence, watching. He would have felt like an intruder, except for how Din kept looking over in his direction. Maybe he was making sure that Boba hadn’t made a break for it, but that was new to Boba in and of itself, someone checking to see if he was still there, wanting him to be. He propped his elbows on the fence and watched as Din was thrown off the blurrg over and over.

“Perhaps if you removed your helmet,” Kuiil called from the other side of the paddock. Din responded by doing even worse with the blurrg. His approach was all wrong, ill-suited to him like a poorly sized weapon he didn’t know how to use, with an aggressiveness he couldn’t follow through on, a stubbornness he wasn’t committed to enough. _Be gentler,_ Boba wanted to tell him, _that’s your way._

“ _Perhaps_ he remembers I tried to roast him,” Din huffed, as he climbed to his feet. The irritation made his already grumbling voice into a growl.

“This is a female, the males are all eaten during mating,” Kuiil said, then turned in Boba’s direction. “Do you need lessons as well?”

“No.” Boba had learned a long time ago, on some mostly-forgotten hunt. He’d been alone, he didn’t have to remember details to know that. Not like Din, who had someone to teach him, who had whatever Boba was to him. Boba watched Din get his feet swept out from under him, the blurrg throwing him halfway across the pen with its tail.

“I don’t have time for this,” Din climbed to his feet again, this time sounding furious. Even from the distance he was at, it made Boba shiver, like he could still feel Din pushing him up against the wall, touching him. “Do you have a land speeder or a speederbike I could hire?”

“You are a Mandalorian,” Kuiil encouraged, waving a hand toward the blurrg that stomped around in the middle of the paddock, “Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur! Surely you can ride this young foal.”

Din came from a legendary people; Boba didn’t know what that was like. He didn’t come from anything, not really. He was a copy, a repeat, the same thing as his father without the history or the ancestry. The same thing as every other clone. He watched as Din stepped close to the blurrg, murmuring to it, the timber of his voice carrying over to Boba, his hands outstretched towards the blurrg. This was the approach that looked the most natural on him, soft crooning and gentle touches. Boba ached to be closer to him again. Maybe that meant Din’s approach to the blurrg was working on Boba too, and the thought was oddly hilarious.

“You gonna ride off into the sunset, or can we get going, here?” Boba yelled over, so Din would get off the blurrg and come near him again. So he was as tamed by Din as a blurrg, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was the most settled he’d felt in a while, after all. The world had ended, but he’d woken up to Din carrying him to safety.

Din was jolted from the blurrg’s back when it turned, and after hitting the ground, he got back to his feet, brushed himself off.

“We can go,” he said. Boba pushed himself off the fence, swung his borrowed rifle over his shoulder. “I expect you’re unreasonably talented at this too?” Din said, and Boba felt a surge of pride. He hadn’t felt seen in a long time; he hadn’t felt seen by someone he _wanted_ to look at him in even longer.

“Oh, you think I’m unreasonably talented at other things, then?” Boba asked, smirking, although Din couldn’t see it.

“You probably can’t even ride,” Din said, and he hadn’t meant it like – like _that,_ but after hearing the word _ride_ in Din’s deep voice, it was all Boba could think about. Straddling Din, with Din’s big hands on his hips – Din _talking_ to him, hearing his name in that voice, Din saying he wanted Boba –

“Trust me. I can ride anything,” Boba said, smirked though Din couldn’t see it. “There’s nothing I haven’t done.” Din gave no indication that he understood the implication, and Boba tried not to wilt at the brush-off. He didn’t even know what had gotten into him, really. First he was getting aroused by Din shoving him into a wall, and now, trying to come on to him.

“Just shut up and get on the thing.” Din was so close to him, and it was intoxicating, his deep voice that close to Boba, the familiarity conveyed by his amusement, the _size_ of him – Boba was nearly exasperated at himself for the desperation it brought out in him.

Boba swung himself onto the third blurrg, watched Din climb onto his own. He couldn’t stop watching Din, the stillness of him, Din looking for all the world like a Mandalorian, except for the part where he could stand to look at Boba, to call Boba his in some tiny way. The light of the setting sun glinted off Boba’s Beskar, and he didn’t know what to do next, had lost all his constants, but it was a comforting sort of drifting. Boba had never felt less like himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always come find me on [Tumblr](icehot13.tumblr.com/) for more boba/din!!

They arrived at the encampment by what felt like late afternoon. It was tucked beneath the sharply jutting rocks, and given that most of the buildings looked like warehouses, the secluded location, and the heavy security, Boba would bet it belonged to smugglers. The bigger outfits had off-planet storage encampments like this one, where they housed their most valuable finds. They must have found – someone? Someone valuable? It wasn’t unheard of. 

“That is where you’ll find your quarry,” Kuiil pointed towards the encampment, and they looked upon it in silence for a few long moments. A sinking feeling told Boba that this had familiar trappings. He’d been here before – not _here,_ not this planet, but it was just like any other. This contract felt Imperial. Did Din know? He must have, he’d probably met with whoever the Imperial client was. Did it bother him?

Din wasn’t looking at the encampment yet, he was talking to Kuiil a little further along the hill. Boba urged his blurrg nearer to them so he could hear. Not because he wanted to get a closer look at Din, at the shape of his biceps beneath the shoulder pauldrons, the thick muscle of his thighs.

“They do not belong here,” Kuiil was saying, “Those that live here come to seek peace. There will be no peace until they’re gone.”

“Then why do you help?” Boba asked; removing one bounty wouldn’t chase away the smugglers. Nothing could get rid of violence, it was a permanent feature in landscapes.

“I have never met a Mandalorian. I’ve only read the stories and heard the rumors,” Kuiil said, “if they are true, you will make quick work of it. Whatever else you are,” he added, with a look in Boba’s direction, “you are effective. Then there will again be peace. I have spoken.”

When Kuiil had left with the blurrgs, Boba let himself look over at Din again. “Let’s go see what’s happening,” he said. He needed to see what this bounty was; it had the stink of the Empire all over it, and the familiarity was sending shivers down his back. Boba strode towards the cliff edge and dropped down, looking over the ledge. His viewplate zoomed in helpfully, and he studied the buildings below.

Din sank to his knees beside him, stretched out. His elbow nudged against Boba’s as he looked through a monocular. The proximity made Boba dizzy, and he tried to stop looking over at Din. Din shifted, and Boba’s gaze slid from the curve of his bicep to the peek of his exposed wrist. Boba was miles away from being a blushing virgin overwhelmed by a flash of bare skin, but here he was anyways, stealing glances at Din’s exposed wrist. “Well?” Din asked, and his voice made Boba shiver.

“Do I look like I have binoculars?” Boba snorted, and when Din didn’t reply, elbowed him. “Fuck’s sake, I was joking. My helmet has a macrobinocular viewplate.”

“Oh.”

Boba refocused on the buildings. Guards, more guards. A familiar-looking type of droid. “Oh, no,” he grumbled, “Bounty droid.” One of the many reasons he didn’t bother with Guild work, the prevalence of idiotic things like bounty droids.

“Do those tend to show up on your jobs?” Din asked, and Boba snorted. He couldn’t imagine a bounty droid marching in and reading the protocol to the assembled criminals, not unless it wanted to be stripped for parts almost immediately. The droid down below was already making a nuisance of itself, drawing fire from all sides. 

“They’re closing all the doors,” Boba said, scanning the rooftops for accessible points between them. The droid was quoting the Bondsman Guild protocol waiver at length. “The Guild’s obsession with that protocol is hilarious, by the way. A _protocol,”_ Boba scoffed, “in _bounty hunting.”_

“Let’s go,” Din got to his feet, smacking the dust from his front before tramping down the hillside. “IG Unit! Stand down!” Boba heard him bellowing; the sharp command made him shiver, want to follow after Din again.

Boba stayed back, slid down the hill and climbed up the back of one of the buildings. He could hear gunfire, and Din shouting at the droid, which continued to spit legal terms, as though they had any place in bounty hunting. Boba sighed, edged closer along a rooftop until he could prop his rifle on a low wall and start shooting. He wished he could hear Din’s exact words; the sharp highs and lows were the only thing that reached him.

Din was slowly working his way towards the main doors. Boba shot the Niktos who were appearing from all doorways and alleys, one after another. Every few shots, he checked on Din’s location again, but Din still appeared safe.

“Do not self-destruct!” he heard Din yelling. Typical droid, nothing but useless programming. Boba wondered if it would be more useful to get rid of the droid, but it seemed to be helping Din, for now. “Hey!” Din was shouting again, but his next words were lost in the gunfire erupting from the next building. Boba turned his rifle in that direction, took out three in quick succession.

The Niktos were wheeling out a mounted gun. “Can you shoot _that_ one?!” Din was all-but screaming, “The one with the _biggest gun?!”_ Boba turned his rifle in that direction, but before he could, he spotted a Nikto on the roof directly above Din, preparing to drop a grenade, and snapped his attention in that direction instead, dropped it with one well-placed shot. “Well?” Din shouted again. “Get _that one!”_

Boba did more than that; he shot the guard on the mounted gun and then slid down the rooftop ladder, leapt onto the gun himself. From there, it was easy to clear the rest of the area, until the clearing had gone completely silent. Boba couldn’t help a flush of pride, at the way Din looked around at the cleared area like he might be impressed.

“You’re welcome!” he called over to Din.

Din shook his head like he was sighing, went over to help the fallen droid before bringing it back to the main doors. Boba started checking the guards for guns; he had nothing left, after all, and it felt unbalanced, to be carrying only a single blaster and a rifle that wasn’t even his.

“Any bright ideas to get inside?” Din yelled in Boba’s direction. Boba looked at him, and then looked at the mounted gun. “Fine.”

Getting them access to the building was easy; Boba shot along the door until it fell open. “You’re _welcome!”_ he added, as Din started inside. A few blaster shots rang out, as they presumably ran into company inside.

“Anyone else?” he heard Din yelling. The irritation in his voice was brisk. Boba spent a few more minutes picking up blasters to examine from the dead guards, and then, when Din still hadn’t appeared, ventured closer. He wouldn’t leave without Boba, probably. He was still in there, and would surely be coming right back out, but Boba crept closer all the same, just to be sure.

Din stood in front of a small orb, one hand outstretched towards whatever was inside. The droid lay on the ground beside him.

“What happened to the droid?” Boba asked, picking his way across the wreckage of the main door.

“I shot it.”

“Uh-huh. If you’re in a teammate-killing mood, I should really go.” He got close enough to see into the orb, and froze. “Is that…”

It was Yoda. Well – tiny. A baby, that looked like him. Couldn’t possibly _be_ him, probably. It was clinging to Din’s finger, gazing up at him. And Din – Din had just reached out to hold its tiny hand, his first instinct to be so _soft,_ so gentle. Anyone could have been given its bounty; Boba wondered if the child would ever understand how lucky it was, that Din was the one who came for it.

“This is the Asset,” Din withdrew his hand, but he kept looking at the child, head tilted slightly. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Huh.” Boba blinked at the child. “Huh.” The child was staring at him. Was it recognizing him? It couldn’t know him, it wasn’t actually Yoda, just the same species. It didn’t know him.

“What? Let’s go.” Din’s voice made Boba flinch; for a moment, he’d been – back then, back in the midst of everything, and his heart was racing although he didn’t know why.

The cradle floated after Din, and Boba trailed after him, couldn’t stop looking at the child. It looked just like Yoda. Were there that many of them? Had Yoda known it? Boba had caused no small amount of wreckage in Yoda’s life – had that affected this child?

“What?” Din asked, again.

“Ever feel like you’ve wronged everyone in the galaxy?” Boba asked, still watching the child. This child had been taken by smugglers, from wherever it had been; had that been Boba’s fault, in some way? Was there _anyone_ he hadn’t touched, hadn’t broken? How far would he have to go before he found nothing familiar?

“What else can you do?” Din asked, as though there had ever been any options, and Boba just shook his head.

“It’s already done.” Everything was either finished or predetermined. It felt like things had been that way long before he’d set about making his own name. Everyone knew what he would be from the moment he was created, just like all the other clones. It meant nothing about him, that he was the one his father kept; clones were interchangeable, and his fate had been predetermined anyway.

The child kept looking at him. Its eyes were huge with fascination, and it looked between him and Din over and over, ears twitching with interest. It watched everything around them, as they trudged through the rocky landscape, like it hadn’t gotten to see this on the way into the compound. By the time night had fallen, it had grown tired and sunken into its cradle to sleep.

Someone was going to come after them. That much, Boba knew. This child – it had to be like Yoda in more ways than one. It was too valuable to lose, and even the smugglers who must have found it would know that. Surely, it was too young to be a Jedi, but it was probably Force-sensitive, and that was why the Empire wanted it. Force-sensitives weren’t easy to find, hard to identify, particularly without a strong enough Force user to seek them out. Vader was dead, after all, though the thought of him still made Boba flinch. He’d never been _afraid_ of Vader. Vader could doubtlessly sense that, the entire time; Boba had always wondered if he could sense the real reason Boba had disliked him. The permanent mask – it had struck Boba has very Mandalorian, and he mistrusted it immediately. Ironic, for a creed he himself mimicked in his own insistence on wearing his helmet as much as possible, but maybe that was where his disdain originated. 

Except – not Din, somehow. Though he was a through-and-through Mandalorian, he didn’t _feel_ like any of the others, not the ones Boba had met nor the nameless masses who had rejected him. Maybe – maybe Boba was supposed to take that as a sign. Maybe he should be understanding that despite appearances, Din could never _really_ want him around. Maybe Boba should just – just steal this bounty from him, use the glory to return to himself, and never look back at this brief period of his life where he felt like he could become someone else, someone real.

He could do it. Easily. Shoot Din, take the child, collect the bounty. Everything would go back to the way it had been before. Boba would continue to be known throughout the galaxy as an individual. No one would ever touch him like Din had ever again. No one would ever come for him the way Din had.

The sound of someone approaching thankfully broke Boba out of his thoughts. “Wait,” he said to Din; Din turned to the cradle immediately, to check on the child. It was still sleeping. Over Din’s shoulder, Boba caught a flash of movement, drew his blaster and shot at the figure.

There were three of them. Din took care of hiding the cradle, and then he had his rifle out, easily matching Boba’s movements. Boba focused on shooting one bounty hunter, and then another, kept glancing over to watch Din; he moved fluidly, though at one point he stumbled, a vibroblade flashing in the bounty hunter’s hand. He shot the bounty hunter before Boba could. Din touched the edges of his wound, and Boba had to look away. He spotted a tracker lying on the ground.

“Isn’t that a Guild tracker?” he asked, and Din sighed. “A droid _and_ three bounty hunters? They really don’t have that much faith in you, do they?” No one had ever sent anything after Boba to finish the job if he couldn’t; if he was nothing else positive, he was dependable.

“I will leave you here,” Din threatened, but Boba thought that he wouldn’t. Probably. Din brought the cradle back to them, the child still fast asleep.

“Some survival instinct you have,” Boba murmured to the child, reached to rock the cradle gently. Hadn’t it felt the disturbance through the Force? Maybe it was too young. Maybe it knew they would take care of it.

“It’s a _child,”_ Din said, but he sounded mystified as well. “Let’s keep going until we have somewhere safer to camp out.”

The spot he chose was a mile further into the plains, and though camping in the middle of an open space felt counterintuitive, Boba knew he wanted to watch from all sides for oncoming bounty hunters. Boba didn’t mind; even the ravines they’d walked through had felt too enclosed.

“Cozy.” He watched Din unsnap a light from his belt, flick it on, and then unroll a small set of tools. Boba sat nearby to watch, but when he became overly mesmerized by the movement of Din’s big hands, he focused instead on inspecting the blasters he’d taken from the encampment. 

“How many of those did you take?” Din asked, after a few minutes. Boba shrugged.

“I appreciate variety.” The one he held was a decent blaster, and he turned it in his hands, glancing it over. Everything felt foreign in his hands, though he still had his old blaster and fought instinctively. “You also may have noticed that I own nothing, so I have to start from somewhere.”

“You didn’t find your ship?” Din asked, voice soft, like he was really thinking about Boba finding himself alone in the desert, unable to find anything familiar, anything that had been his.

“Everything was gone.” Boba kept his gaze on the blaster. He’d known, without having to look. Everything on the surface was gone, was leaving, and the longer he stayed down there, the more his name eroded, too. He was becoming less and less as he stayed, and by the time he’d escaped, there had been nearly nothing left. His heart was beating too quickly, suddenly, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to ward off the encroaching panic.

“How long were you there for?” Din’s voice reached through to him. Quiet, concerned. No one spoke to Boba like that.

“About a year. There were others down there, so it was saving me for last.” He tried not to sound like he was still there, but maybe part of him was. “It took that long to get to the bottom.”

“What happened?” Din asked. Boba took a slow breath, clenched his teeth and tried to remember that he was _here._ He was here, he was out, Din was here with him, he wasn’t alone. Boba didn’t want to think about it; he didn’t want to carry it alone anymore, either. He wanted to hear in someone else’s voice that he’d escaped, that he was still recognizable as himself, that there was something there _to_ recognize.

“When I got all the way down and could stand, I triggered the jetpack and set it off, and the explosion threw me back out.” He’d been frantic, desperate; it kept _talking to him,_ and he’d been so afraid, from the moment he’d thought of the plan, that it would fail. He’d almost wished he hadn’t thought of it, that there had been no escape possible. But – the thing down there with him, the thing that claimed it had merged consciousness with the Sarlacc. It had started telling a story, about a barve like all the rest, except for the things it could do, and how it was saved for last. And Boba – that was him, he was just like all the other clones, set apart only by his actions, and here he was – the last one. Not special, not in the end.

“I don’t know if I hallucinated the whole thing, but – the Sarlacc had merged consciousness with someone it had trapped hundreds of years ago, and they talked to me. For a year, telling me that this was it, that I’d spend the next thousand years kept alive just so it could kill me as slowly as it wanted, like a special barve that you don’t eat all at once because then it can be useful in the meantime, just that for a _thousand years_ –” Boba shook his head sharply, didn’t want to hear its voice in his head anymore. He’d felt like he was dissolving, as it talked, and he’d started fighting back, because it was telling him he was what he’d always known himself to be – just like all the rest, dying like all the rest.

_You don’t know what it’s like,_ he’d screamed back, _you were an individual, weren’t you? And now you’re nothing, just like me. You’ve become nothing, no one will ever remember you, you don’t matter, you’re nothing now and you have no idea how much that’s going to hurt. I have always been nothing, but you were something, weren’t you? You’ve let it take that from you._

“I made it angry, and it shook me loose,” he said sharply. It had raged at him, being reminded of what it had lost, what it wasn’t any longer. “And then I could activate my jetpack. That’s how I got out.” He tossed the blaster down, reached for Din’s roll of tools. “Give me that.” He took the cauterizing pen from Din’s hand, really just an excuse to touch him, to remind himself he’d escaped, that Din was really, really here. “Incompetent.”

Din let Boba move closer, and Boba focused on breathing evenly as he carefully touched the cauterizing pen to Din’s cut. Boba just had to – to touch him, to be near him, to be sure that Din was really here, that Boba hadn’t just hallucinated what he desperately needed. If he hadn’t done it in forty-three years, he doubted he’d have started now, but he wanted to be sure.

Din shifted slightly, tilted his head to look at Boba. He said something in Mando’a, and the language didn’t stir up the hurt hatred it usually did when Boba heard it; it was too gentle, too soft. Boba didn’t know what he was saying, and he _wanted_ to, he wanted to know what Din was telling him, but if he told Din he couldn’t understand, would Din think Boba didn’t belong with him? Boba wanted so badly to belong with this man, with his softly growling voice and his impossibly gentle hands, this man who found the galaxy’s most notorious bounty hunter and wanted to save him, who cared what had happened to Boba while he was out of the galaxy’s sight.

A small sound made Boba turn, and he found the child, reaching towards the cauterizing pen. It may have been trying to use the Force, and the thought made Boba’s stomach turn. Not on Din, the child couldn’t use it on Din; what if it choked him, and Boba could remember – arguing on a tram, Ventress wanting to do what Boba _knew_ was the right thing, to return someone forcibly taken from their home, and Boba was just _so_ _angry_ , because no one had come _for him,_ and he wanted to do this, become this, so he could be a bounty hunter _before_ a clone, and – she’d choked him, reached for him without touching him.

“I don’t think so,” Boba set the pen down, and Din stood before Boba could do anything else, picked up the child and returned it to the cradle.

“It’s time to sleep,” Din murmured to it, “we’re going to sleep, too.” The child gave cheery chirping noises; Boba felt bad for assuming it would try and choke anyone, but the memory was somehow still fresh. It was a bizarrely terrifying feeling, being choked by someone who wasn’t touching him, like being alienated even in his suffering. 

“You want to sleep, or keep watch first?” Boba asked, when Din sat beside him again, still close to him.

“I’ll keep watch,” Din said, voice serious as ever, like he was watching over Boba as well as the child and this was a promise to keep them both safe.

Boba tried to sleep; talking about everything had made it feel closer, and he kept shifting around, needing to check that he was still here, still in the middle of a vast, open clearing, that Din was still nearby. Din had wanted to know what happened; no one ever asked what had happened to Boba. They accepted him as he stood before them, the culmination of his notorious actions and nothing else. No one came for him, no one thought about him, like he didn’t exist in between the stories about him. Had Din heard he was still alive, and – and wondered if he was okay? He’d known where to go, and it felt like somehow, he’d seen straight through to Boba at the center of the legend.

This time, when Boba woke up over and over, it wasn’t with a jolting fear; his nightmares kept ejecting him, but as soon as he was awake, he was remembering: He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone.

Din did not react well, to the sight of Jawas dismantling his ship. As soon as Boba asked if he’d heard something while nearing where he’d left the ship, Din was at the cliff edge, dropping to one knee and firing on the Jawas. He was an excellent shot, and between his competency and the stance, Boba was abruptly reminded that he was helplessly attracted to Din. Fuck, how couldn’t he be? Din was everything Boba had always liked – bigger than him, broad and solid, with a voice that made him shiver. He was different, though, than anyone Boba had actually been with; thinking with his dick had always led him to men who could withstand his stubbornness, which inevitably meant they were tougher, meaner. Din’s gentleness made him unlike anyone else.

“This isn’t great conflict resolution,” Boba commented, swung his borrowed rifle off his shoulder and started shooting. The ship looked completely stripped. If they couldn’t leave here – would they stay? The Jawas were closing up their giant, crawling vehicle and leaving; Din stood, turned to look at Boba. Boba tried not to look like he’d been staring at Din’s back, shifted from one foot to the other and pretended like he was watching the Jawa ship depart.

“Stay with the child,” Din commanded, and then he was bolting after the ship. Boba sighed, watching him leave. The child cooed like it wanted something from him, although Boba couldn’t say for sure. He hadn’t been around many children before, and he stepped up to the cradle, reached to bounce it slightly, to happy chirps from the child that made him feel like he’d responded correctly.

“Promise me,” he said, the child gazing at him with rapt attention, “You will never hurt him. No Force choking him. Please.” The child patted the back of Boba’s hand, then started reaching for him, wiggling. Boba caved immediately, reached and scooped the child into his arms. It patted his armor with fascination, touched his helmet. “You’ve probably been through some scary stuff, huh?” Boba asked. The child’s ears drooped. “I’m sorry,” Boba said, because it had to have been his fault, in some way; he was always a piece of the worst machinery. He just didn’t want anything bad to happen to this child, didn’t want it to go with the Empire, didn’t want it to suffer.

It was so young, it was all alone, and no one had come for it. Maybe it was too young to remember that part; maybe it would only remember this, remember Din and Boba taking it away, and if they kept it, they would remain the ones who came for it when it was alone, when it needed saving. They could become that, Boba thought. This child didn’t have to know how it felt, to be alone and desperate to belong somewhere, to fall onto his knees with his father’s helmet in his hands and sob from the weight of being alone in the galaxy.

“We’re going to be okay,” Boba told the child, touched his fingertip to its ear gently. “We’ll be just fine. You don’t have to be scared. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll do it for us, okay?” The child chirped as though it understood, and reached for the rangefinder on his helmet. “I don’t think so, kid.” Boba shifted it to his other arm, and then programmed the cradle to follow him before he started walking in the direction Din had gone. “He’s not gonna get his stuff back,” Boba told the child, “That thing they drive is pretty strong. They’ve had a lot of time alone in the desert to think about how to build it so no one can hurt them.”

True enough, he found Din sprawled on the rock, the Jawas long gone. The sight of him motionless made Boba’s heart race, but he could already see Din moving slightly. The child gave a frantic sound, pointing towards Din.

“Don’t worry,” Boba said, “he’s okay. He’s moving. He’s got a lot of armor on, too, and he’s really strong.” Boba set the child back into the cradle, nudged Din’s shoulder with the toe of his boot.

“Nice going,” Boba said. The child chirped in probable agreement. “See, I told you he was fine,” he added, looking over at the child. Din groaned from the ground. The child made a questioning sound. “No, he’s just being dramatic. He’s fine, I promise. You’re freaking the kid out,” Boba told Din, “it thinks you’re dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Din grumbled, pushing himself up. “Let’s go see what’s left of the ship.”

Boba wanted to pick the child back up, but wasn’t sure if he could, in front of Din. If Din so much as looked at him with an ounce of uncertainty, of concern for the child, Boba would crumple. Instead, he just followed Din back to the ship, watched as Din tore through it to discover what was missing. The loud clattering sounds were making the child flinch each time, though, so Boba guided its cradle farther away from the ship.

“He’s looking to see what we need to fix,” Boba explained, “they took a lot of stuff. Do you remember how big their ship was? They could fit a lot into it.” He gestured to indicate a tall vehicle, and the child chirped in fascination, mimicking. “Yeah, that’s right. Really big, huh? They could put almost his whole ship into it. Which, he would really not like.”

The child chirped again; it felt like hearing Din speak Mando’a, not knowing the words and having only the tone to go from. If he let himself forget that it was supposed to be words, it could almost feel okay, like they were just telling him things with the sounds of their voices and not the words.

“Yeah, we’ll be just fine,” Boba told the child, “Din’s resourceful. I’m sure he’ll go try and trade for his ship parts back, because he seems like the kind of man who would want to trade and not just take, and then we’ll go –” Go give the child to the Empire. Boba swallowed hard. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Alright,” he heard Din call, appearing at the entrance to the ship. “Everything good is gone. We’ll go to Kuiil’s, and see if he knows where the Jawas tend to be.”

“See,” Boba told the child softly, “He knows what to do.” 

Walking to Kuiil’s farm took them until nightfall, but Kuiil was still outdoors working when they approached. “I thought you were dead,” he greeted them. Din grunted.

“Jawas got to the ship,” Boba reported. “Took everything that wasn’t welded down. Won’t fly.” He watched the child climb out of its cradle, drop to the ground and begin toddling around. It was fascinated by the pebbles, mostly.

“This is what was causing all the fuss?” Kuiil asked.

“I think it’s a child.” Din’s voice was a growl. Every time he spoke, Boba looked at him.

“It is better to deliver it alive, then.” Kuiil looked at them as though he couldn’t figure out why they were still on the planet, despite the missing parts. Boba watched the child stack rocks with its tiny hands.

“My ship has been destroyed. I’m trapped here.”

“Stripped. Not destroyed. The Jawas steal, they don’t destroy.”

“Good to know they have a _code,”_ Boba snorted, rolled his eyes. He was probably just bitter about codes because of the strict Mandalorian one that had kept him firmly outside their circle, but he hated codes, hated creeds, hated protocols.

“Stolen or destroyed, makes no difference to me,” Din growled, “They’re protected by their crawling fortress. There’s no way to recover the parts.”

“You can trade.”

“Trade with Jawas?” Boba snorted. “Are you out of your mind?” If it had been him, he’d have just taken everything back, but he was still sure in his assumption that Din wouldn’t want to do that. It didn’t make the task any easier, though.

“I will take you to them. I have spoken,” Kuiil said, to a sigh from Din. Boba watched as the child noticed a frog hopping by, surprised when the child pounce and caught it, then promptly stuffed it into its mouth.

“Hey,” Din warned, “spit that out.” The child swallowed the frog, and giggled. Boba spotted another frog and snatched it, held it out to the child. “Hey!” Boba froze, looked over guiltily. The child shrieked happily and jumped to reach the frog. “Don’t give him that.” The child grabbed it though, and crammed the frog into its mouth.

Din stalked off to choose a spot to camp, judging from his grumbled “I guess we’ll sleep here,” and as soon as he was out of sight, Boba picked the child up again.

“Frogs, huh?” he asked. The child shrieked, extended its hands hopefully. “No, I don’t _have_ one for you right now. But hey, I promise I’ll give you every frog I catch, okay?” The child wiggled, and Boba set it down obligingly; the child promptly scooped up a pebble and offered it to him. “No, you don’t have to give me anything for it. You can just have them.”

A frog croaked nearby; the child pointed towards the sound expectantly. “Oh, you expect me to catch _all_ of them, now? Really?” The child pointed more emphatically. “You do it,” Boba said, and the child huffed. “Okay, just one.” So he wanted the kid to like him; he was a pushover. He grabbed the frog, handed it over, to gleeful shrieks.

Din had chosen a spot near Kuiil’s tent for them to sleep, and Kuiil had lent him blankets; Boba watched Din check on the child, leaning over the cradle and murmuring to it.

“Should one of us keep watch?” he ventured, because it had been comforting, waking up to find Din still awake. Din shrugged.

“Probably a good idea.”

“I’ll go first,” Boba offered. Din nodded, and unlike Boba, he seemed able to fall asleep quickly. The child was still restless, peeking over the edge of the cradle every twenty minutes or so. Boba reached over, rocked it gently. “Shh,” he murmured, glancing over at Din. He was still deeply asleep, stretched out on his side, facing away from Boba. His back was so broad, particularly from this angle.

Boba felt something on his hand, and looked back; the child had put its chin on the back of his hand, blinking at him. “He’s sleeping,” Boba whispered. “You should be sleeping, too.” The child closed its eyes. “Good job.”

A few hours later, Din stirred, turning onto his back and looking over at Boba. “You tired yet?” he asked, voice still sounding drowsy. The softness of it made Boba ache to reach for him.

“No,” Boba said, although staring out into the dark was staring to wear on him. He kept having to check and make sure Din was still beside him, though the sleepiness of his voice made Boba feel safer somehow, like the world really was just them, because how else could Din be so soft.

“You sound tired,” Din said.

“You don’t know how I sound,” Boba muttered, because otherwise, he might be swept away by it all, sink into this and curl in close to Din. Din gave an amused snort. “Fine. Trade me.” He slid down, balled up a blanket beneath his head. Din sat up, stretched and leaned across Boba to check on the child. Boba’s heart beat faster from the proximity, but somehow, it felt entirely different from when it was caused by other things. He closed his eyes, Din still leaning over him to inspect the cradle. Boba could feel it, when he moved away, but he could also feel that Din hadn’t gone that far.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, amidst a heavy downpour that darkened the sky, Kuiil led them to the Jawas. Din displayed a stubborn streak Boba hadn’t yet seen, and it was oddly endearing, watching him snarl and snap at them in broken Jawa and try and use his flamethrower in frustration. His irritation brought out a fighting, lively side of him, and Boba just stood silently at his side, watching. The Jawas wanted everything under the sun in exchange for Din’s ship parts – his armor, his guns, the rest of the ship, his helmet, and Boba himself.

“No,” Boba said, when Kuiil paused to consider. “Hey, no!”

“Isn’t there anything else?” Kuiil asked the Jawas with a sigh, as though he thought Boba was being the unreasonable one. The Jawas decided on an egg, of all things.

“An egg,” Boba repeated, when Kuiil translated for them. Din seemed to be following along anyways, and Boba had learned to limp along in Jawa a long time ago out of necessity. They always seemed to have what people wanted. “Are you saying they’ll take ten guns, or _me,_ or an egg?” The Jawa value system had always baffled him. Usually, when they had something extremely valuable that he was supposed to obtain, they never knew it was the most valuable thing in their possession.

“They prefer the egg,” Kuiil said, and Boba shook his head. “It is in a pit.” The word made Boba’s stomach sink. “Just a half mile to the west from here, they say.”

“Of course it’s in a pit,” Boba muttered, fought off the wave of nausea.

“Let’s go get the egg, then,” Din rose from his seat, snatched his rifle from the ground where he’d been forced to lay it, and started in the direction where all the Jawas pointed in unison. The child waved goodbye to the Jawas as the three of them left the canyon.

It wasn’t long before the pit loomed into view; the rain had tapered off, leaving the small canyon muddy and slick. Even the sight of the cave made Boba feel sick, and he looked to Din, hoping desperately Din wouldn’t ask him to come. Din had to understand, somehow, what that would do to Boba. Boba had _told_ Din about the Sarlacc, how he’d been kept underground and reminded that he was being saved for last at the end of a thousand years.

“Just stay back here with him,” Din said, and Boba breathed a sigh of relief. Din understood, that Boba was on shaky footing now. Din had known where to find him, and Din knew that he wouldn’t be the same when he was found. “Maybe this is just a plan for the Jawas to snatch the child while I hunt for a nonexistent egg like an idiot.”

“What if they capture us both?” Boba asked dryly; it was easier to be in sight of the pit, when Din was talking to him like this, like they were on the same team.

It was hard to watch Din walk into it, though. Boba stood beside the child’s cradle, heart in his throat as Din disappeared from view. It was almost as bad as going in himself, and Boba was having trouble breathing, chest constricting.

“It’s just a stupid pit,” Boba mumbled, though his racing heart begged to differ. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” Din had disappeared though, and Boba ached have him back. The child cooed beside him, and Boba reached over without looking, cupped his hand to the back of its head. “It’s okay,” Boba said, “It’s okay. He’ll be back. He’ll come out.”

He couldn’t breathe. It was the Sarlacc all over again, but he was on the outside, watching Din go in instead, and Boba’s heart was beating so, so fast. He was just _looking_ at the stupid thing, how did it feel like he was dying, like there was something constricting his chest and he couldn’t breathe anymore?

“Please,” he whispered, had to lean over with his hands on his knees, struggling to breathe, “Please, please, he has to come back.”

Sudden movement made his head jerk up. Din had been thrown back out of the pit and his body landed in the mud, sliding away. Boba made a strangled sound. A mudhorn came charging out of the pit next, and Din was scrambling up, trying to get his rifle to work but the mudhorn was charging.

“Hey!” Din yelled, and – he was calling for Boba. “ _Hey!”_ Boba ripped his blaster from its holster and began firing, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough, not for a mudhorn. He had to get something more powerful, but even his borrowed rifle wouldn’t be enough. He had to think of something –

“Your rifle?” Boba yelled, spotting Din’s rifle laying in the mud. It was the only thing powerful enough.

“Busted!” Din was scrambling in the mud looking for something. Boba kept shooting, because at least the mudhorn was being distracted by it, changing course slightly every time it was hit. Boba had to do something, it was going to trample Din to death, it would _kill him –_ maybe if Boba could get to Din’s rifle, and he tried to time his shots to allow for it. The mudhorn would charge in his direction, then go after Din again, and Boba was able to slide down the muddy hill, get closer, closer, but it kept charging at Din and heaving him across the clearing, and Din couldn’t keep taking hits like that –

“Help him!” Boba yelled back towards the child. “Come on! I know you can use it to help him!” The Force, that would save Din, it had to –

“Don’t yell at him! He’s a baby!” Din called back. Boba had reached his rifle and dropped to his knees, trying frantically to clear the mud from its chamber. The mudhorn snorted, charged towards Din, and Din couldn’t stand, kept stumbling –

The child used the Force.

Boba drew in a shaky breath, watched the child float the mudhorn in midair. Din was safe. Din was safe. Boba watched Din dive at the mudhorn with a blade in hand, finally kill it before the mudhorn fell to the mud and Din collapsed to his knees. Din was okay, though, he was _okay._ Boba forced himself to stand, went to check on the child because if he approached Din right now, he wouldn’t be able to stop from clinging to him, the hysterical need to sob clawing its way out of his chest.

The child had slumped into its cradle, blinking sleepily up at Boba. “Good job,” Boba said gently, “I knew you could do it.” He touched the tip of its ear with a fingertip. “You can use the Force for good things. You did such a good job, I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ve got it,” Din’s voice carried across the clearing, and Boba straightened.

“It’s sleeping, but I think it’ll be fine.” He studied Din, the way Din slightly favored his left leg, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Are _you_ fine?”

“Uh-huh.” Din started out of the canyon. Boba glanced back towards the pit again, exhaled a shuddering breath, and followed Din and the child. He’d almost lost Din. Right in front of him, Din had nearly died, and Boba fought to keep the full realization at bay. He’d almost _lost Din,_ and though he hadn’t been around Din for long, the thought of losing him – Boba hadn’t had anyone _to_ lose in a long time, and suddenly, on this unknown planet, beneath a burning sun and before a pit that made his knees go weak, he’d found that he _had_ someone, and almost had Din taken from him.

 _Please,_ Boba thought, pleading uselessly with whatever cosmic force had chosen to take everything from him and to make him nothing, _just him. I just want him._

The ship repairs were easy, once they had all the parts back. Din was in a snit about the amount of work it would take to repair what the Jawas had done, but Boba didn’t know how to tell him that he was lucky, that problems that weren’t predestined were actually blessings. Small instances of bad luck were nothing, were things it was possible to fight hard enough against. Boba didn’t know how to tell him _you still have who you are, because you’ve always been someone._ He wished he could speak to Din the way Din spoke to him, in that language Boba couldn’t understand, a mystery that turned his words into a sound that only conveyed the feeling behind what he was wanting to say.

When they’d repaired the ship and said goodbye to Kuiil, Boba watched Din take his seat in the cockpit, watched his big hands flicker across the control panel.

“Nevarro?” Boba asked. He’d finally learned the name of the planet Din had taken him to, from the ship’s flight plans, though the name still meant little to him.

“Yes.”

Boba didn’t know everything about Din, but he was sure Din wasn’t sold on their current plan. He knew it. No man who took pity on a force of violence and disgrace like Boba could let anything bad happen to an innocent child. No man who could touch someone as terrible as Boba that gently could resist saving a foundling. He could pity the redemptionless; he could never doom an innocent.

The child woke after a few hours, climbed out of its cradle and toddled towards Din. It reached for the ball on the end of a handle, popped it off.

“Hey. That’s not a toy.” Din plucked the ball from the child’s hands, lifted the child up by the back of its clothing and put it back into the cradle. The child complained, then turned to lift its hands to Boba imploringly. Boba reached for it immediately.

“How did you know what it could do?” Din asked, turned back to look at Boba and the child. The child sat on Boba’s lap happily, cooing to itself.

“I’ve seen its kind before. Just one, though.”

“Where is it?”

“Dead.” Like nearly everyone he dealt with.

“Did you work together?” Din asked, and Boba shook his head no. The idea was laughable. No one wanted to work with him. It was a reputation he’d earned, forcefully, because when he’d had it without reason, it had hurt _so badly._

“I’ve never worked with anyone. I’ve only worked for people, or worked to kill them.”

“So you don’t know anyone who would know where it came from?” Din asked. Boba thought of the last time he’d seen them, Solo and Skywalker. He shuddered.

“I don’t know what they knew about him. Last time I saw them was on Tattooine. For all I know, this one _is_ him, somehow.” Boba lifted the child into his arms, studied it. It tried to reach for his rangefinder again. “You don’t recognize me,” Boba said, trying to will it true. It was just the same species. It had nothing to do with anyone he’d ever wronged, but – hadn’t everyone felt the ripples of his actions? There was no one he hadn’t wronged. “Right?” he whispered.

He settled the child back into his lap, and it leaned its head on his arm, yawning. Boba tipped his head back, watching Din program their flight plan. He wanted to be something good, in the child’s life. He wanted to be something Din didn’t have to feel guilty for treating kindly. There was something extraordinary about Din, that he could look at Boba and see anything redeemable. It almost made Boba feel like a real person. At the very least, he didn’t feel like himself, and no one else had ever made him feel like that.

The child whined, when Din took it off the ship. Boba could hear it whimpering from his place in the cockpit, and he slid into Din’s chair, watching through the viewscreen as Din took the cradle out of the port. His shoulders had a resigned set to them and Boba was _sure_ Din didn’t want to do this. The way he’d sighed as he took the cradle away had made Boba wonder, though, if Din thought he _had_ to. The Mandalorians were restrictive, Boba knew that; there wasn’t much lateral movement allowed, the Creed was imprisoning, and maybe Din wanted to be something else.

Boba waited. He had to give Din time to give the child to the Imperials, probably go back to the Guild. He should wait in the ship for at least an hour, he figured, but it was so quiet. So small, and he kept looking around and finding no one. He drummed his fingers on the armrests, tried to take slow breaths. He was fine, and that – that thing that had happened as he watched Din go into the pit, it was a one-time thing, even if this felt like it could ramp up into the same hysterics. That wasn’t _him,_ he didn’t do that, lose it like that, even if being in the cockpit was suddenly making him feel caged-in and edgy for no reason. He was mostly sure Din would come back. He _knew_ Din wanted to keep the child, but – but could he do that without coming back to the ship? What if he rescued the child and disappeared somewhere else on the planet, and Boba never – never saw him again?

Waiting outside the Guild sounded like a better idea. Boba grabbed his blaster on the way out and left the ship, headed into town. It wasn’t hard to find the Guild’s headquarters; there was a sign hanging out front, and Boba snorted at the sight of it. Bounty hunting that was entirely above-board had always felt somewhat hilarious to him. Despite the lack of threat they posed, he decided to wait outside instead, slunk into the alleyway to wait, although he stepped closer to the edge of it, didn’t look back at the tunnel behind him.

Minutes passed, maybe half an hour. Boba kept glancing over his shoulder; the close walls of the alleyway didn’t change, but it had him edging as close as he could to the entrance, shifting his shoulders, looking backwards. Finally, though, Din appeared at the door of the Guild, started walking past the alleyway. His armor was different, newly replaced with Beskar, but Boba would still recognize him anywhere. No one else had shoulders like that, narrow hips but a broad chest, carried the same air of confidence that was somehow intimidating and safe. Boba stepped out of the alley, caught up with him.

“You took a while,” Boba said, and Din looked at him, somehow managed to convey a large amount of surprise in the small tilt of his head, as though anyone could ever meet Din and not realize he was incapable of doing the wrong thing when it came to foundlings. The thought actually made Boba laugh. “Oh, were you going to go back to the ship? Leave the kid there? Not change your mind afterwards?” The thrill of knowing him that well was uplifting; this man, the one who had deemed Boba worthy of saving, Boba _knew_ him.

“Fine, you’re right,” Din grunted. “Let’s go get him.”

Boba kept watch for him, first outside the building and then from the hallway inside; once he heard Din enter the lab, he left to circle around the large room Din would have to pass back through to exit. The Imperials would doubtlessly corner him there, and Boba could easily ambush them.

It unfolded just as Boba knew it would. Alarms started going off, Din came back to the large room near the entry, and was surrounded by Stormtroopers. Boba stayed hidden behind a doorframe, scowling at the sight of them. He’d always hated Stormtroopers. Their armor reminded him of the Clonetroopers, and looking at their blank helmets made him feel sick, knowing their faces were just like his own, that he was one of them, that the only thing differentiating him was his armor, was _nothing._ He hated Stormtroopers.

“Put the asset down,” one was ordering Din, “Put down your blaster and the asset. You can’t get out.” Din obliged, set down his blaster unconcernedly. Boba leaned around the doorway, and started shooting. He shot two immediately, then darted forward to catch the third before he turned around. Din snatched his blaster back off the floor and dealt with the remaining two.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Boba said, looking around but found no others. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else figures it out.” His gaze fell on the child, cradled in Din’s arms. “He’s okay, right?” Boba asked. He wanted badly to hold the child again, be _sure_ it was okay, but stopped himself before he could fully reach for it. He didn’t want Din to look at him with the distrust he surely deserved.

“He’s fine.” Din, incredibly, held the child out to Boba. “Here,” he said, and it was to say _I trust you,_ to say _I know you._ Boba felt a swelling of emotion in his chest, took the child into his arms gratefully.   
“We’re back,” he whispered to it, wanted to apologize profusely for even the short time it had spent with the Empire. “It’s okay.”

Boba didn’t know what would happen next, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was following Din, with the child in his arms; they were both with Din, who had told the other Mandalorians that Boba was in his care, who had asked if Boba had really survived everything that had happened to him, who had _cared._ Boba followed him through the quiet streets of Nevarro, the child tucked against his chest, mesmerized by the sight of Din ahead of him, this man he both barely and completely knew. Din’s kindness was radiant, was the brightest thing Boba had ever seen, and he ached to deserve it, to have Din someday know that he’d saved Boba from much more than a death on Mustafar. The way Din looked at him redefined him, and Boba was helpless for it, this the strongest, most pure thing he’d felt in a long time.

He knew, vaguely, that they wouldn’t be escaping easily. Boba kept listening for the sounds of approaching bounty hunters, and he could tell when Din heard it. His steps quickened, and he kept giving small glances towards the sources of the sounds. It was the Guild, Boba was sure about that. Someone would want to complete the bounty.

“It’s okay,” Boba whispered to the child, “It might get loud, but you’re okay. Don’t be scared.” The child was deeply asleep, maybe sedated, but its tiny snores were comforting. “Everything’s okay, Din knows what he’s doing.”

“Welcome back, Mando,” the head of the Guild stood in the middle of the road before them. “Where’s the package?”

“Step aside. I’m going to my ship,” Din said. He was going to stand up for what he had done, Boba could see that, but it wasn’t a strategically sound idea. The Guild knew too much about Din, he would be the easiest between the two of them to hunt down. The man was looking past Din, seeing Boba holding the child, and Boba knew what he had to do.

“Of course. I should have known what happened here. I should have known he’d capture you as soon as he found out about the Asset.” He sounded almost pitying, that Din had fallen victim to Boba’s usual treachery.

“Really?” Din hissed under his breath. “Why does everyone keep thinking you’ve taken me hostage?” He almost sounded like he didn’t know. The way he looked at Boba had been so completely redeeming, it was like he’d forgotten what Boba had spent his life doing. Boba wanted to forget, too. He sighed softly, and then stepped closer to Din, drawing his blaster.

“Because they know how valuable the child is,” Boba said, pressed his blaster barrel into Din’s side as gently as he could while making it look convincing. These people didn’t know him. Nobody knew him, because there was no one to know, and it _hurt,_ every time Boba failed to be more than the name he’d made for himself. He couldn’t be anything else, there wasn’t anything else _to him._ What did he have to offer Din, if he was nothing? “And they know I’m Boba Fett.” He was so fucking tired of being himself, but this was all he had. If he wasn’t this, he was a clone. He was nothing.

Din let Boba push him into the back of a speeder truck, and Boba kept the child tucked close to his chest as he shot at the bounty hunters from behind the truck’s sides. Beside him, Din was oddly still.

“Are you going to shoot them, or what?” Boba asked; maybe Din wasn’t used to this, people turning on him, maybe he was reluctant to shoot his fellow Guild members. Boba would do it for him, if that was what he wanted; he just wanted to escape this, together.

“How,” Din started, sounding unsure, and then he switched to Mando’a, asked Boba something he couldn’t understand in a tense voice, the words spat out. Boba wilted, wondered if Din was asking how he was so unaffected by this, but what did Din expect? Boba had been betraying people for years. No one felt like they’d ever been on his side in the first place.

“On your left,” Boba said, and thankfully, Din started shooting back, although he turned away from Boba to do it. Maybe it was disappointing, to see Boba fully in action, but Boba wanted to protest that he couldn’t betray people who didn’t care about him. _No one_ gave a shit about him, who was he supposed to side with? He didn’t want to be giving Din such a clear example of what he was, but this was all he had. Maybe Din didn’t understand that was the reason Boba was willing to do anything for the first person who wanted him.

Right when things were looking particularly grim, shots started raining down from somewhere high above. Boba looked up, flinched at the sight of the Mandalorians, descending on jetpacks and shooting at the Guild bounty hunters. He half expected them to shoot him on sight, too.

“Whoa,” Boba paused, “What’re they doing here?” He would have thought that his presence was enough to keep them from helping Din.

“Helping,” Din grunted, busy shooting at the remaining bounty hunters. Was he disappointed, that they’d turned on him so easily? Maybe now that they thought Boba had taken him hostage, they would focus on Boba instead. It would make things easier, would make escape more probable, not that Boba knew where they could possibly go. He just wanted Din to be safe, wherever they ended up going, didn’t want his life to turn into a relentless, ongoing escape from people pursuing him.

“Let’s get out of here.” The Mandalorians clearly had the situation handled, and Boba wasn’t going to miss their chance to escape. He ducked away from the hail of blasterfire and ran, Din following close behind him. Boba didn’t miss the head of the Guild following them, but he wasn’t worried; they would be long gone before he could do anything about it. Boba reached the ship and ran up the ramp, heard Din’s footsteps close behind.

“Hold it, Fett,” the Guild leader’s voice came from the bottom of the ramp. Boba turned to him; it was ridiculous, that this man thought he could take the child from them. Boba had never done anything _good,_ and this, this was it, this was the first thing he’d cared about doing. He wasn’t going to let it be stopped so easily. “I’m afraid I’m not sorry it’s come to this. You never have respected our code. Put down the package,” the man said, but right before he could fire, Din shot a valve by the door, releasing hissing steam that filled the cargo hold. Boba shot the Guild leader, then hit the button to bring the ramp up.

The silence was, for once, comforting. Boba exhaled slowly. “Can you get us the fuck out of here?” he asked Din, holstered his blaster and turned back the blankets to check on the child. It was still sleeping, had barely stirred.

“What?” Din sounded lost, and Boba hated that he’d had to face this, possibly for the first time, having people turn on him so abruptly.

“What are you waiting for?” Boba reached up and took his helmet off, tossed it into the bed compartment. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, if the child knew his face; he’d finally done something that felt entirely his own in a way that didn’t hurt.

Din left for the cockpit, and Boba stayed below deck with the child, rocking it gently to keep it asleep. Boba had always craved uncertainty, even though it only came in the form of upheaval; if his life was taking new, unexpected turns, it meant he was living a life that belonged only to him. And this, this was the first time it had been something _good._ He wasn’t just a clone; he was the man who had helped Din save this child. Maybe Din had seen that capability in him, somehow.

Boba wandered up to the cockpit after a while, climbed the ladder with one arm, the child tucked against his chest with the other, and stepped into the cockpit to find Din. He didn’t expect to find any answers, to help him explain why Din could have deemed him worth saving, but he wanted to hear Din’s voice, wanted to reach for him. _Now what,_ he wanted to know, and the only answer that mattered was that he could stay with Din and the child.

“Well?” Din jerked around to look at Boba, and his voice was harsh, jagged. Boba took a step backward. Why was Din _mad_ at him? “Are you going to shoot me?”

He was looking at Boba and seeing – seeing him. Seeing who he’d always been, maybe all Boba was ever going to be. How – how had Boba been so fucking _stupid?_ He’d thought Din had seen something redeeming in him? Din thought Boba had betrayed him. Din knew who Boba was, and knew it was _that._

“Of course not,” Boba snarled. The anger in his chest swelled, a thrashing hurt that made him want to lash out, to fall to his knees. He was so pathetic. He thought he could be something else, thought he could _be_ someone, and how had he forgotten so easily, what he really was? He was the things he had done, and nothing more. He would never be anything else. Din seeing it hurt so _much,_ because – because apparently, Boba was so desperate to matter that he’d developed feelings for the first man to speak to him gently. He was nothing, and Din knew it.

The child stirred in his arms, squirming and starting to cry in panicked little exhales. “Hey,” Boba murmured, and the child stopped crying; maybe he was good for something, if only to this child. It cooed, as though the sound of his voice was a good thing, a signal that things were okay. “Yeah.” Boba turned his back on Din, left the cockpit; if he looked at Din for a moment longer, he thought he might fall apart. “You’re back with us.” Not that they would stay together long. It was suddenly obvious, that Boba never could have stayed with Din. Why would Din ever want that? Boba had nothing to offer but what he’d done, and that was useless to a man like Din.

Boba took the child into the bed compartment and closed the door behind him. The enveloping darkness in the small space made his chest tighten, but even that was preferable to being somewhere that Din could see him. He lay on his side and tucked the child against his chest, rubbing its back gently and murmuring to it as it yawned. Its small hand reached up to touch his jaw questioningly. He had to keep it together; the child was finally calmed down, Boba didn’t want to upset it again, now that it was finally somewhere safe.

“I don’t think I’m going to be around much longer,” Boba said, swallowed hard. “But you never know, you might see my face again. Not like it’s just mine.” Nothing was just his, nothing but his armor and his name and the terrible things he’d done in an effort to be loud enough to drown out the nothingness that composed him. One of those things, at least, he could give the child.

He spent a while trying to teach the child his name, and though it didn’t speak any discernable words, it seemed to begin to recognize the name and understand that it was Boba’s. When its coos became sleepy, Boba hummed to it softly until it closed its eyes, started to fall asleep. Outside the compartment, he heard Din’s footsteps.

“Any objections to going to Sorgan?” Din called through the door. Boba didn’t know why his opinion mattered, and the sound of Din’s voice made his chest feel tight suddenly. He’d sounded so _angry_ with Boba just a little while ago. Everything soft he’d ever felt towards Boba had evaporated, and Boba was back to being what he’d been before. He’d never been anything else. He never could be. “If you don’t, that’s where we’re going.” As though it mattered. Boba wasn’t staying with him, it was clear; if he could look at Boba and see him the same way as everyone else, why would Boba stay? It didn’t matter what he felt for Din. It didn’t matter to _Din._

“Go where you want,” Boba snapped back at him, tried to force the tremble out of his voice. “I don’t have you held hostage.”

“I figured – it has no star port, no industrial centers. No population density. Real backwater skug hole. Nobody would find us there.” _Us,_ like they would stay together. Like he thought of Boba as any kind of partner. He didn’t, he _didn’t._

“Kid’s trying to sleep,” Boba said sharply. The child was already fully asleep, holding onto Boba’s shirt with its tiny hands. There was silence, and then he heard Din’s retreating footsteps, the sound of his boots on the ladder rungs. Boba’s breathing hitched, and he rubbed his eyes, feeling himself lose the fight against the stupid, helpless tears that had been threatening since Din snapped at him. Being a fucking legendary bounty hunter didn’t matter much, when he could still be _this hurt._ He didn’t know why Din had saved him; it clearly hadn’t mattered, because he couldn’t be saved from what he was.

The child stirred slightly, no doubt feeling the way Boba’s chest shook with hitching sobs. He tried to stop, rubbing his face and trying to steady his breathing. The child cooed in its sleep, snuggled closer against him. Boba would miss the child so, so much when he left. He would miss Din, too; he would miss the way it felt to think he could matter, to Din.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the amazing comments!!!! i love you guys!!!

Boba could register nothing about Sorgan except for the fact that it was the last planet where he would see Din. He couldn’t stop himself from trying to come up with scenarios where he could stay, but it was pathetic, pointless, to stay. It wasn’t Din’s fault, for assuming Boba would betray him. It was the reputation Boba had made for himself, it was what he deserved. Din even seemed apologetic, clearly regretted how he had reacted, and Boba didn’t _blame_ him, but – but it hurt. Even Din couldn’t fully trust him, and how had Boba ever thought he could be someone else? Din saw him the same way as everyone else did, the way Boba had made himself.

Once they’d landed, Boba left the ship before Din, the walls feeling claustrophobic and overly close. The child toddled after him, eager to explore the clearing and all the pebbles it could find. Din joined them, silent, and began walking down a path that led into the forest. Boba followed, head down. He didn’t know when he would leave. He could at any moment, but stepping away from Din felt like an impossible first hurdle to get over.

After a short walk, they came upon a small wooden building, busy with visitors. Boba didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to be around more people who might recognize him; he was so _tired_ of being himself. He’d probably felt that way for years, but it was suddenly so much more than he could bear. He’d wanted to be someone Din could trust. For a moment, it had felt like he was.

The child seemed interested when it smelled food, and Din led them inside, over to an empty table. Boba didn’t let himself notice if anyone recognized him, kept his head down. A woman stopped by the table to ask if they wanted anything, and Din asked for broth for the child. He was looking around like he was forming a plan, thinking about what they would do next, and the thought was hard to take. Boba had wanted so badly to stay. Din was asking the waitress about a woman across the room, who clearly didn’t belong on Sorgan. Boba took the opportunity to slide off his chair and leave the table, slip out of the busy room.

Outside, he stepped away from the door, looking at the expanse of forest surrounding the small building. He couldn’t take it anymore, being beside Din, miserable with the knowledge that Din hadn’t been able to see anything truly redeeming in him. Probably because it wasn’t there, because Boba was the nothingness he’d always known he was. He couldn’t _leave_ either, though, tethered to Din and the ghost of the things he’d felt.

Boba heard footsteps behind him, but didn’t turn until he realized they were moving too quickly; before he could do anything, someone had kicked at the back of his knees and slammed him to the ground, the flash of pain registering before the rest did. It was the woman Din had been asking about, and she must have recognized Boba, decided to apparently deal with him herself, on behalf of the entire galaxy.

“What do you _want?”_ he snapped, tried to get to his feet, but she intercepted him before he could, and bodily threw him into the wall. It wasn’t pleasant. Boba didn’t fucking _feel_ like fighting back.

“Hey!” Din’s voice, loud and angry. Boba shifted onto his side, stayed on the ground.

“You after me, too?” the woman asked Din, and Boba scoffed. Was _that_ all this was?

“You’re too small-time for me,” he said. Whatever the hell he was doing with his life now, it wasn’t taking small, pointless bounties, that was for sure.

“You don’t even know who I am!”

“Exactly.” He didn’t even want to get off the ground. He was so fucking tired, of all of this. He was tired of people knowing his name, was tired of _having_ it. Din towered over him, and Boba sighed out a long breath, watching the way Din put his hands on his hips, looked between them in concern.

“Well, I know who _you_ are –”

“Yeah, _exactly.”_

They were cut off by a slurping sound, and all three turned. The child stood watching them, placidly drinking from its soup cup.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” Boba said, finally pushed himself up off the ground and went to pick up the child. So what, if it made Din nervous; he would be leaving soon, and this was one of the last chances he’d get to hold it in his arms. The child held the cup up to him. “No, that’s just for you.”

“Want to join us?” Din asked the woman, who shrugged. She was openly staring at Boba, clearly in shock; somehow, it hurt more than her violent recognition had. 

She joined them at their table, and explained to Din that she had been a shocktrooper, and that she’d assumed he had a tracking fob for her.

“That’s why I came at you so hard,” she added to Boba, and he shook his head.

“I’m not in the Guild.”

“And I don’t have a tracking fob for you,” Din added, “we’re here for unrelated reasons.”

“Well, this has been a real treat,” she said, “but unless either of you wants to go another round, one of us is gonna have to move on, and I was here first.”

“I’m not staying,” Boba said. He glanced at the child, hoped it hadn’t understood; it hadn’t seemed to, busy with its soup. The woman pushed her chair back and left the table.

“Looks like this planet’s taken, then,” Din said to the child, who cooed at him. “We’ll…” He didn’t finish his thought. Maybe he didn’t want Boba to know. It didn’t matter; Boba wouldn’t be finding out, anyways.

Despite his plan to leave, he still followed when Din stood from the table and left the restaurant. Boba wasn’t sure when he should go – now? Was it already now? His heart started beating faster, and he watched Din ahead of him, his broad shoulders, his new Beskar armor. Boba wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready. Who did he think he was kidding, that he’d ever be able to pull the trigger on this? Preparing to leave Din felt like preparing to rip his heart out.

Before he could figure out what to do next, two men hurried up to Din, looked at him like he was going to save them. Boba recognized the feeling.

“We need your help,” one said, and Din looked between them slowly.

“With what?”

“Raiders,” the other said.

“What, do you think I’m some kind of mercenary?”

“You are a Mandalorian, right? Or at least wearing Mandalorian armor,” the first said, and Boba huffed out a breath at the familiar comment. Just wearing the armor, that was what everyone said, although it wasn’t _theirs,_ it wasn’t _Mandalorian,_ it was his, he always wanted to insist, his because it had been his father’s, whatever legacy that afforded him.

“Get to it,” he snapped.

“I’ve read a lot about your people,” the first man continued earnestly, looking between them, “Um, tribe. If half of what I’ve read is true –”

“We have money!” the other chimed in.

“How much?” Boba asked. Maybe he could stay. Maybe Din would let him stay and help, and Boba could prolong the inevitable. The thought of leaving, alone, was making him dizzy.

“Everything we have, sir. Our whole harvest was stolen. Of krill, we’re krill farmers.”

“It’s not enough,” Boba said. He reached down and picked the child up off the ground; it handed one rock, and then three more, until Boba thought he might drop one. “Where do you keep getting these?” he whispered, when the child kept producing more to give to him. It wanted something from him, clearly, but he wasn’t sure what it was. The child pointed to its open mouth and nodded encouragingly. “There aren’t any frogs here,” Boba whispered to it, and the child held out another rock, like that might convince him to go looking for some.

“Are you sure? You don’t even know the job yet!”

“What is the job?” Din interrupted. 

“Please, it’s the raiders, we just want our land back from them but there’s nothing we can do ourselves, we’re just farmers, in the middle of nowhere –”

“Sure,” Din said, because of course he did, because he was _good._

“No one ever asks me for this kind of stuff,” Boba mumbled under his breath, mostly to the child. It was true; no one had ever, in all his years of traveling between planets, seen him show up and spontaneously asked him for help. How could people sense the difference between them so easily?

“I’ll need those credits,” Din added, not seeming to hear Boba, thankfully. The two farmers joined them on the trip back to the ship for more supplies, and Boba went along, helped them move things between the ship and the farmers’ wagon. Din spoke to the farmers again before he climbed into the back of the wagon, settling the child in among a pile of burlap bags. Boba climbed in after him, sat as close to Din as he dared. Would it still feel the same, if Din touched him, now? Boba thought he’d be able to feel it, Din’s reluctance. Somehow, Boba _still_ felt a surge of longing, when he looked at Din, but of course he would; though Din’s view of him had come sharper into focus, Din hadn’t changed. He’d still been kind, still been gentle. He’d thought Boba had betrayed him, and then come to speak to him softly, concerned for the man he’d believed capable of killing him. Boba still ached to be near him, but he couldn’t stay, not when it hurt this much, not when every moment was a reminder that he _wasn’t_ more than this, not even to Din. He would never be anything, and to realize that while in the company of the man he wanted to _be_ something for – Boba couldn’t take it.

They stopped near a campsite in the forest, and Din climbed out of the wagon, disappeared into the forest. When he returned, it was with the woman who had thought Boba had come after her. Of course.

“Oh, great,” she said, eyeing Boba, “he’s coming, too.”

“You know him?” Din asked, but of course she did. Everyone did. When had it become so painful, to see the usual look of horrified recognition on someone’s face? It was still better than the old recognition, when someone saw his face and remembered seeing it before even though they’d never met him personally.

“It’s best to know the enemy. Speaking of, I’m Cara.” She climbed into the wagon, chose a spot that was as far as she could get from Boba. He didn’t care; what was one more person who hated him? “So we’re basically running off a band of raiders for lunch money?” she asked, as the wagon lurched ahead.

“They’re quartering us in the middle of nowhere,” Din said, “Last I checked, that’s a pretty square deal for somebody in your position. Besides, I can’t imagine there’s anything living in these trees an ex-shock trooper couldn’t handle.”

“What about what you brought with you?” Cara said, with a pointed look at Boba.

“I’m not staying long. I’ll be off your planet before you know it.” He didn’t know where he’d go, after this. He probably had to contact the Empire, face whatever was coming for him, beg for another job to redeem himself. What else could he do, besides go back to his old life? There was nowhere else for him to go. There was no escape, and he was stupid to have ever thought there was, but – but Din had saved him. Din had come for him when no one else had, and Boba was realizing much too late that it said more about Din than it said about him. Din was the kind of man who saved the redemptionless; it didn’t mean anything about Boba, to be the one who needed saving, who’d never been saved before.

They reached the village in the late morning; it was tucked amongst the trees, with small wooden buildings clustered near each other. Boba couldn’t stop seeing it as it could have been – if they’d escaped with the child and nothing had gone wrong. If he wasn’t someone who prompted suspicion before anything else, if Din hadn’t looked at him and seen all the terrible things he’d ever done. Maybe they would have stayed here, maybe this would have been the first good place Boba had ever been. Maybe the child would have become friends with the village children, maybe they would have had one of the little homes, maybe Din would have kept wanting Boba to stay.

Boba didn’t know how a place he’d never been could feel like something he’d lost, but everything hurt to look at. As soon as they’d unloaded all the weapons and supplies from the wagon and the villagers who’d come to greet them had begun wandering away, Boba scooped up the child and fled Din’s presence. Suddenly – suddenly, he just didn’t want Din to see him; Din saw everything Boba had done, when looking at him, and everything Boba felt for him now was humiliating.

The child, at least, was ecstatic. After it joined the other kids for lunch, it was thrilled to be included in their games, kept looking back at Boba and wiggling its ears in excitement. Boba lingered at the far edge of the clearing, sat on a wooden bench and watched the child chase after a ball. Everyone kept their distance; he almost didn’t notice it anymore, might not have at all if he hadn’t seen that people seemed drawn to Din in comparison. It was possibly the armor, shining and noble, but maybe they could sense that he was safe, too; he had a comforting presence. Comforting voice, too.

“Are you the baby’s daddy?” a little girl stood several paces away from him, like she was still deciding if he was safe to approach.

“Um. No. We’re taking care of him though.”

“Oh.” The girl thought that over for a moment. “How old is the baby?”

“He’s fifty,” Boba said, and she tilted her head. “Honest. His species is funny, they take a very long time to grow up. I promise he’s fifty.”

“He’s a _baby.”_

“A fifty year old baby,” Boba said, and she took a few steps closer, pondering look on her face.

“Is he old enough to know hide and seek?”

“I don’t know,” Boba said, mostly because he didn’t have any clue what the child would catch on to, but admittedly, also because he had no idea what she was talking about. Not like he’d ever played with the other clones – when he was too little to understand what he was, they outgrew him too rapidly, and by the time he understood, they did too, and resented him for being the one who’d been set apart. “I’m sure he’d like to try,” Boba said. “He’s happy to play anything.”

“Okay. That’s good.” The girl nodded, like this was a serious negotiation and she was accepting her win with grace. “I’ll teach him.”

“That’s nice of you.”

He watched her run back to the group of children, where she crouched down in front of the child and launched into what appeared to be a very detailed explanation. Boba glanced towards the barn again, where he knew Din was; there was no sign of him in the visible window on the side of the barn that overlooked the clearing. He wanted to take his helmet off again, but suddenly, letting Din see his face felt different than before.

A woman with long black hair approached the clearing, watched the group of kids for a minute, and then came nearer to him; she’d gone by the barn earlier, though Boba didn’t know if she’d been talking to Cara or Din.

“Hello,” she said, and from the just slightly too-long distance she kept between them, Boba knew she’d heard of him before. It reminded him of the little girl, but that also could have been because the woman resembled her pretty strongly. “My daughter’s the one giving the baby a complete history of hide and seek.”

“Nice kid. Little one likes her,” Boba offered. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. The woman was looking at him, head tilted slightly, arms crossed.

“I have to admit,” she said, after a long pause. “I’m a little curious about why you’re here.”

“The raiders,” Boba waved a hand vaguely towards the trees, where he assumed they’d be finding these raiders.

“You specifically,” she said. “I’m afraid your reputation precedes you.”

“Even out here?” Boba asked dryly. He propped an elbow on the back of the bench, tilted his head back to look up at her more closely. She’d heard of him; he recognized the guarded look on her face as a familiar one. 

“You’d be surprised.”

“Probably wouldn’t be.” Boba sighed out a long breath. “Well, I’m not here to kill anyone. Village is safe.”

“I can see that. I’m just curious. It’s not every day Boba Fett goes out of his way to save a village.”

That, Boba couldn’t argue. If she thought he was here to do harm, could she… make him leave? Maybe him leave Din here? Boba wasn’t ready to do that. “He wanted to do it,” Boba said, tilted his head towards the barn. “So here we are.”

“Hmm.” She looked towards the group of children; her daughter was leading the child by the hand towards the nearby pond, crouching behind some plants and apparently re-explaining the game to the child. “My name’s Omera,” she said. “I appreciate you staying to help us. It just struck me as very interesting.” What explanation was she expecting, exactly? Boba bristled at the idea of admitting even a small portion of it: _I used to think he liked me. He touched me so gently I saw redemption. I’m afraid to return to a galaxy without him._

He caught movement at the side of the barn, spotted the unmissable figure of Din, leading Cara down a path into the forest. No doubt they were going to check on the raider situation, and didn’t need Boba for it. Which – fine. Not that Boba would have known what to say to Din anyways, especially with Cara around, looking at Boba like he was a monster. He _deserved_ it, he did, he just – just forgot how to be anything else, when people looked at him like that. Everything else suddenly unreachable. It was the opposite of the way Din had looked at him, that way that made Boba feel like he could be softer, could be better. It hadn’t been real.

“I’m back from the dead, I’m entitled to a few _interesting_ choices, aren’t I?” Boba sneered, hoping she would leave him alone. Why was he expected to know why he was here? He couldn’t look at Din, but couldn’t bear to leave him, what was Boba _supposed_ to do? He wanted Din to have understood. He just wanted Din to have _understood._

“Of course,” Omera said, as though it had been a serious question. Boba couldn’t even blame her for being suspicious; she _knew_ about him, and he was a threat to her home. He wasn’t like Din, who exuded safeness and compassion, the kind of presence that made everything else around go calm. “Like I told your friends, let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m in the second house over there, with the porch.”

“They’re not,” Boba muttered under his breath, but Omera was already walking away, too far to hear. He’d never had _friends,_ and Cara would as soon kill him as look at him, and Din – no one who’d ever trusted Boba could sound that angry, that hateful. _Are you going to shoot me,_ he’d snarled, and Boba was never going to be anything but that, to Din.

The day passed slowly. Boba stayed near the child because it was easier than facing Din, and Din seemed busy anyways, circling the camp with Cara like they were forming a plan that clearly didn’t need Boba’s input. Not like he had much to offer that they could use; surely his methods were useless to them, inapplicable to the goal of saving a village. Boba didn’t venture into the barn until the early evening, when the child’s yawning forced him to call it a day.

“Time for bed,” Boba told the child, heading towards the barn. It was stupid, that his heart was beating faster, that he could be nervous about going inside. The child yawned again, put its head down on Boba’s shoulder.

“ –oh, please,” Cara’s voice floated through the open window as Boba neared, “We might as well go try and barter with shrimp! Hey, guys, here’s fifty pounds if you’ll stop trashing villages, don’t eat it all at once.”

When Boba stepped through the door, the room went quiet; Cara was sitting on a crate near the door, but Boba’s eyes went right to Din, who leaned against the back wall, looking broad and solid.

“Hey,” Din said, soft. Boba swallowed. _Are you going to shoot me_ rang in his ears.

“Kid’s tired,” he managed; Cara tilted her head, like seeing him carrying the child was baffling beyond belief. He didn’t appreciate the reminder. Boba tried to ignore her, went over to the cradle and set the child down in it, tucked the blankets around it.

“We went and checked out the raiders’ camp,” Din said, “doesn’t look like there’s too many of them.”

“Yeah, just a few pals and their AT-ST,” Cara added. Boba fussed with the child’s blanket, patted down the edges. The child blinked up at him sleepily.

“Huh,” Boba said, looked over his shoulder towards Cara. She shrugged, crossed her arms.

“We’ll figure something out, since apparently we’re staying.” She said it like they’d already had an entire discussion without him, and like the strategizing would be done without him, too. Boba had been a fool to think he was anything like Din’s partner, at any point. Din didn’t need _his_ help, didn’t need someone he couldn’t trust, didn’t need him at all, his questionable methods and dirty record.

“Can’t wait to see how you take down an AT-ST with nothing but shrimp nets and two guns,” Boba snapped, couldn’t chase the sharpness from his voice. He didn’t _want_ to be like this, but Cara was looking at him like he was liable to kill her and how was he supposed to be anything else when she was already looking at him like that? “Should be a real show. Promise you won’t run out and bring it down tonight while I’m asleep, wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“There’s a bed here, and in the next room,” Din said, voice incongruent with Boba’s snarling. “Which one would you like?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Cara won’t sneak in and stab me in my sleep. She seems to have a ton of self-restraint.”

“You have too much faith in me,” Cara said. “I’m staying with someone in the village. Don’t think I’d be able to sleep knowing you’re in the same room.” Could _Din_ sleep, if Boba was there? Boba just wanted to hide in his bed and not be looked at by anyone, didn’t feel like the looming threat either saw him as. He just wanted to be alone.

“Well,” Boba swallowed, forced himself to look at Din, who hadn’t moved. He wished Cara would just _leave,_ stop reminding Din what a monster he was. “Glad to hear you guys have this all figured out. See you in the morning.”

“Right.” Did he know, that the softness in his voice would make Boba feel weak? Probably not; he probably thought Boba was incapable of that kind of feeling. “Good night.”

There was nothing left for Boba to do but leave, and he stalked past Cara and out of the room; he realized his mistake as soon as he saw the other room, which was more of a supply closet, and much smaller than the main room. A cot had been brought in, but even the comfort of an actual bed couldn’t quite override the feeling of dread that threatened to overtake him at the sight of the small space. Boba did his best to fight it back, took his helmet off and tossed his armor into the corner with it. How had he ever felt even remotely comfortable taking his helmet off in front of Din? How had he told Din about the Sarlacc pit? Din looked at him like he was a monster, and Boba had told him about being _scared._ Had Din thought he _deserved_ it, knowing what Boba was?

He sank down onto the bed, untied his boots with embarrassingly shaky fingers. It wasn’t even that bad in here. Small and dark, but that was no reason to be falling the fuck apart. He slid under the covers, turned away from the wall and tried to focus on anything but how close the walls were, how it was so quiet he could have been underground, could have been –

“I’m sure one of them would let you stay,” Cara’s voice floated over from the next room, and even that was better than silence. “One of them in particular, probably.”

“I’m fine here.”

“Really? I don’t know how you could sleep,” Cara said, “You _do_ know who he is, right? You aren’t just… out of touch, or something?”

“I know,” Din said, almost too quiet for Boba to hear. He knew. He’d looked right at Boba and seen _only_ that, hadn’t seen how in that moment, Boba had felt so safe with him.

“Well, try and survive the night. Village is depending on you, and all.”

“He won’t,” Din said, but there was a falter to it that made Boba’s throat close up. Din didn’t feel _safe_ around him? Boba wanted to break down entirely, to _beg_ Din to understand him. _I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, not you, never you,_ but Din had already thought Boba would. What did it _matter,_ if Boba felt different now? If Din didn’t see him that way, if Din didn’t feel safe around him, it wasn’t real, and he hadn’t changed at all. There had been no redemption.


	7. Chapter 7

Boba wasn’t part of the planning process. He watched from a distance, as Din and Cara inspected the ponds at the entrance of the village, the perimeter that faced the direction of the raider’s camp. Why they weren’t planning to just kill the raiders back at their own camp was beyond him. AT-ST’s were harmless when there was no one left to operate them, and surely picking off the raiders one by one was smarter than luring them to the camp. They were probably trying to minimize losses on both sides, but Boba didn’t know what the point of that was.

He skipped the town meeting where they presumably announced the plan; he left the child with Omera’s daughter and slipped away before he could be asked to hear their plan at the same time as everyone else. There was a path towards the raider’s camp and he followed it for lack of anything better to do; he should be leaving, he knew. He should just walk away and not go back at all. It was selfish, to stay. Din knew what he was, and it wasn’t someone who should be raising a child in any capacity. Cara’s open disdain every time she saw Boba with the child had reminded him of that all morning: he couldn’t be trusted. He’d never be trusted. He didn’t want to inflict himself and all the things he’d done on Din.

Boba wanted to apologize but he hadn’t really _done_ anything to Din directly, and had done far too much else to apologize for – what would he even say? He was sorry for making Din think he’d betray him? He was sorry for spending thirty years spreading violence and ruthlessness across the galaxy in exchange for an identity beyond just _clone?_ Everything else was too big, too terrible, to apologize for, and _was_ he sorry about it? He’d done unforgivable things in desperate pursuit of an identity that still hadn’t materialized, and even now, his regret only surfaced because of the way Din saw him. He wasn’t _good,_ he wasn’t _better,_ he was the same he’d always been and wanting to be Din’s was just his latest attempt at an identity. Boba couldn’t _love_ someone, he had nothing to offer in return and no proof he was anything other than a clone.

The raider’s camp bore no surprises. Just a camp, like the countless others he’d destroyed in the past in pursuit of a bounty. If they’d handed him a rifle, he could have taken out every last raider by the end of the afternoon, and the raiders never would have guessed he had any connection to the village. It would have spared the villagers who would inevitably die in this defensive plan of theirs, but preemptive bloodshed made people inexplicably nervous, as though they’d really thought they could come out of things without sparing anything. Boba had never understood it. Fights were approached with something expendable, because something _would_ be lost, that part was unavoidable – that had been the point of the entire clone army. Fights could only be won when faced with the knowledge that something _would be_ lost, and preparing something to lose was even better. It wasn’t that Boba had never had anything to lose, that had made him a great bounty hunter – it was that everything he had _was_ something he could lose. It made him ruthless, made him without weakness, because what could anyone take from him, or hold over him? He had nothing _important._

He trudged through the forest for as long as he thought the meeting might take, and then a couple hours more. Let them set up their plan, start training the villagers to use weapons, which was surely their plan. Like anything good ever came of creating armies with people who mattered.

By the time he got back, things were well underway; he slunk past the villagers grouped around Din, as he walked them through the parts of a rifle. Nearby, Cara had villagers paired off practicing takedowns – or a hesitating, nervous version of them, from the looks of it.

“What’s all this?” Boba asked, stepping up beside Cara as she watched over her group. “Hand to hand combat in slow motion?”

“They’re just starting to learn,” Cara said, crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a long look. “Where the hell did you go? Not much of a team player, I see.”

“Didn’t you hear? I’ve always been part of a _team_ of bounty hunters,” Boba rolled his eyes. “I’m the leader because I won the popular vote.”

“How you got him to hang around you is beyond me,” Cara said, and Boba tried not to visibly recoil. “Seriously, what’s your plan here? You gonna steal the kid and collect its bounty yourself? You know he’s pretty attached to it.”

_I am too,_ Boba wanted to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. Maybe Din thought this too, that he was going to steal the kid in the middle of the night, put Din through another betrayal. Boba looked over; Din’s group had dispersed, and Omera was holding the rifle, aiming it towards a target setup across the field. Even from a distance, Boba could see the way she looked at Din while he spoke to her.

“He doesn’t have anything to worry about,” Boba said. “So, you want me to do something on this fucking team, or what?”

“Pretty sure they’re too scared of you,” Cara said. “Who wants to be given pointers by a murdering criminal?”

“People who are literally learning to kill?” Boba snapped. “Look, I’m not exactly dying to waste my time here. Come get me if you need help, or don’t, I don’t care.” He glanced towards Din again; why was Omera still talking to him?

“Maybe he’ll stay here,” Cara said, following Boba’s gaze, “She’s crazy about him. Strong, silent type must really do it for her, huh?”

“That’s him,” Boba mumbled, although it wasn’t, exactly, because Din was quiet but not silent, because he was strong but it was a _gentle_ sort of strength. If Omera asked him to stay, would Din want to? He really had no need for Boba, and had Boba ever thought he _did?_ What would someone like Din want with _him,_ and when Din could have this, could stay here with a beautiful woman who adored him, raise a kid in a peaceful place – what would he want with Boba then? A clone with nothing but bad deeds to his name?

“Well,” Boba huffed, couldn’t bear to watch any longer; Omera was smiling at Din. “Come get me if you want someone to actually teach them to shoot, and not just flirt.”

He stalked away from the clearing; it didn’t escape his notice, that several villagers watched him go, like they’d been anxiously waiting for him to go the entire time. Din didn’t notice him leave. 

Once Boba had seen Omera around Din once, it suddenly kept happening. She stopped by the barn in the evening to ask if they needed anything, and in the morning came by with food as Boba was just leaving, and in the afternoon, always seemed to be in the group Din was teaching to shoot. Boba wasn’t _sulking_ about it, but it wasn’t exactly lifting his spirits, either, being shown exactly what he’d be ruining if he hung around. It felt like he was living the same day over and over again – this time, the afternoon had started with him teaching the villagers how to throw a punch, but it still ended up with him watching Din across the field, Cara standing beside him with her arms crossed.

“What’s your deal?” Cara’s voice made Boba flinch; across the field at their makeshift shooting range, Din was working his way down the line, giving pointers.

“I don’t have a _deal.”_

“Well, you’ve been completely useless, aside from scaring the villagers,” Cara said, and Boba wished she was exaggerating, but there had been more than a few people who slid away from his training group and joined another when they thought he wasn’t looking. Boba huffed out a breath, glanced over at the shooting range again; Din had made it down the line back to Omera, and she was talking to him, indicating something on the rifle.

“Why _are_ you here?” Cara asked, and Boba knew his plan didn’t seem to make sense, but why did people keep _asking_ him that? Maybe it was a good thing, that it wasn’t immediately obvious, that everyone couldn’t just look at him and see he was clinging to Din until their inevitable separation. Mostly, though, it just felt like he didn’t belong and everyone could see it.

“You already asked me that,” Boba snapped.

“Yeah, well, I still don’t have an answer, and I don’t exactly trust you.”

“What ulterior motive could I have, exactly?” Boba asked, felt heat rising up the back of his neck. Why did he _care,_ what she thought he was doing here? “You’ve already asked if I’m kidnapping the kid, and I’m not. What else is there?”

“I really don’t know,” Cara said, shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“For fuck’s sake. I’m going to go put the kid down for a nap. Or maybe I’m going to burn down the village, guess we’ll _find out.”_

“It’s not the village I’m worried about,” Cara said, and at Boba’s responding snarl, narrowed her eyes at him. “There’s not much else here, is there? There’s the village, the kid, and _him_.” She nodded towards Din, and Boba clenched his teeth, didn’t know how to respond without sounding defensive.

“He’s safe from me,” Boba spat. He stalked away before Cara could stop him, and before he had to promise again that he wouldn’t hurt Din, _couldn’t,_ before she could look at him like she didn’t believe him.

His day didn’t improve; the child was fussy when Boba tried to put it down to sleep, and after fifteen minutes of his attempts resulting in nothing but cries, Boba was ready to call it quits.

“Come on,” he pleaded, the child trying to climb out of the cradle again. “It’s naptime, you know that. You’ll be so cranky later if you don’t sleep.” The child hiccupped a sob and shook its head. “Okay, let’s go.” Boba lifted the child out of the cradle and headed outside; the child quieted, at least, looking around curiously. Walking around was the only thing Boba could think to do, and he hummed to the child under his breath as he wandered in a loop near the outside of the village.

“Don’t worry,” Boba murmured to the child, patting its back as he walked it in circles to lull it to sleep, “Din will do this for you. I bet he’d sing for you, too. He’s got such a good voice.” Boba’s breathing hitched slightly, and he swallowed hard. “You’ll be okay. He’ll take good care of you. Better without me.”

When he looked, the child was already asleep, but Boba didn’t go back to the barn; he wasn’t ready to put the child down just yet, wanted to hold it for just a little longer.

Late in the evening, Boba put off returning to the barn as long as he could; he’d handed the child over to Din a few hours ago, and he was hoping Din would already be asleep, because that was what he’d sunk to, desperately avoiding Din and sneaking in and out while he slept. As soon as he was within sight of the window, though, he could see a light on inside the barn, and somehow, his heart could both sink and lift at the same time.

“Hey,” Din said, as Boba pushed the door open, took a few tentative steps inside. He was sitting on the end of his bed, absent-mindedly rocking the cradle to keep the child asleep. “Where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere,” Boba mumbled. “Where’s there to go? It’s a fucking village in the middle of nowhere.”

“No, I mean…” Din paused. Boba wanted to slink away, even though the only place to hide was the too-small room that made him anxious; he wanted to cross the room and sit beside Din, hide against him. “I haven’t seen you much since we got here, I wanted to make sure you’re…”

“Behaving?” Boba snorted. “Yes. Haven’t killed a single villager, and probably won’t the entire time we’re here, no matter what Cara says.”

“Probably?” Din asked, a sardonic note to it that, despite everything, made Boba almost smile. “And no, not _behaving._ I know you’ve been, uh. Good,” Din said, like he had _no idea_ what it was like for Boba to hear that in his voice. Did he really not know? How had Boba gone from abjectly miserable to suddenly aroused just because he’d heard Din tell him _I know you’ve been good,_ exactly the way it would sound if he said it in bed, like he’d told Boba to be good for him and was praising him for following directions. Fuck, Boba was going to die of this, of all of it. “No, I mean, just…” Din tried again.

“Hello?” Omera’s voice floated in from the doorway. Boba tried not to groan aloud as she came into the room. “I saw the light still on and thought I’d stop by, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” Din said, and Boba looked between them; Omera looked right past him, and the soft smile on her face wasn’t for him. Boba turned, headed down the hallway as she started talking. She was saying that she was worried about the village, worried about the plan, and Din’s voice was comforting, a low rumble of _I know you’re all afraid_ and _it’ll be okay._

Boba closed the door behind him, even though the enclosed space was already making his heart race. He just couldn’t bear to hear her voice, the way she spoke to Din like she _knew_ him. He set his helmet aside, climbed into the bed and tried not to listen to them talk. He already couldn’t get Din’s voice out of his head, and hearing _I know you’ve been good_ made him want to be good for Din, to be praised by him, to have Din’s hands all over him and that impossibly deep voice telling him he was good. And now – Din was talking to her. This was just how he sounded, had a voice made for crooning praise that made Boba shiver, but it wasn’t _meant_ for Boba.

Boba couldn’t stay. Hearing the gentle way Din spoke to Omera only confirmed it, that Boba couldn’t stay and stand in the way of whatever life Din could have without him, that he couldn’t cling to the man who had saved him just because they’d spent a few days together. He couldn’t stay, and realizing that was to realize that part of him had really, _really_ hoped he could.

The days passed agonizingly slowly. Boba lay awake each night for what felt like hours, thinking about leaving, but every night, he stayed. Din didn’t _need_ him. The first time he was truly alone with Din was on what he knew would be his last day on Sorgan. It was automatic, that Boba would be the one to go with him to the raiders’ camp, so they could draw the AT-ST into the trap they’d set. Boba was still only peripherally aware of the plan; he’d follow Din’s lead, didn’t need to know much else. Maybe that was further proof that he hadn’t changed, couldn’t change, that all he could think about were his own pathetic desires when there was a village that needed saving. Yesterday, he’d overheard Cara asking Din, “so, what’s he look like? I’m curious,” and Din’s distracted “I don’t, uh. Remember,” had wounded Boba to his core. A village to save, and he was having his feelings hurt over _this._

Boba followed Din into the forest in silence, after sunset. The raiders’ camp wasn’t far, and they stopped just out of sight of it, so they could survey before going in. Boba went through the familiar motions, getting on the ground and setting up the scope of his rifle; next time he did this, he would be alone. He didn’t have to know where he was going, to know that.

Din was at his elbow, so impossibly close, and the nearness made Boba’s chest tighten. He’d wanted _so badly_ to keep this. Why had he been given this small peek into what he couldn’t have? Why had this _happened_ to him? He could have kept going forever. He’d never felt like things _could_ be different, and he would have been fine, to keep going like that, to never know any different. This was so, so much worse.

“I shouldn’t have assumed you’d turn on me,” Din said quietly. Boba bit his lip, fought back the wave of hurt that welled up in his chest. Why _shouldn’t_ Din have? Just because Boba had thought Din had understood him? Just because it had been a brief glimpse into a life where Boba _meant_ something? Boba didn’t mean a fucking thing beyond the terrible things he’d done.

“I thought you understood.”

“Boba –” Din said, and then he said something in Mando’a, just a murmur in his deep voice. It didn’t mean anything to Boba. How didn’t Din know that? Of course Boba wouldn’t understand, he wasn’t a Mandalorian, he wasn’t _anything,_ and the reminder stung. He shook his head, got to his feet quickly.

“Let’s get down there. We’ll stick the charges in the tent, let them know we’re there, and get out.” He should have left earlier. He shouldn’t have stayed for this, shouldn’t have come near Din again. All it did was _hurt._

Infiltrating the raiders’ camp was effortless. Boba would miss having Din at his side, would expect to find him there long after this ended. Everything had changed around him, Boba intuitively looking for him and responding to his movements, and even in this, even in the simplest part of his life, he would miss Din like a lost limb. Getting in, setting the charges, and getting out was easy, with Din to help him.

Things moved smoothly; before long, they were luring the AT-ST towards the trap, and Boba was at Din’s side again, firing on the raiders from behind cover.

“Back left,” Boba told Din as he fired, “Far left, up by the barrier.” Din filled in effortlessly, and Boba knew he was going to feel incompetent, without Din at his side. Even that was going to be taken from him, now that he’d seen how things could be. He couldn’t keep this, he kept reminding himself. He couldn’t survive the sharp pain he felt every time he remembered he was still, always, nothing. He’d never wanted to be _this._ Something, always, but not this, and the proof that he’d failed, that he never could have done it, was unsurvivable.

“It’s stopping,” Cara was saying, from Din’s other side. The AT-ST had paused at the edge of the pond where they needed it to step.

“We gotta get that thing to step forward,” Din said, as Cara yelled for the villagers to open fire on the incoming raiders surging forward.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” Cara studied the AT-ST for a moment, then turned to Din. “Gimme the pulse rifle.”

“Aim for the back of the turret,” Boba said, as Din handed the pulse rifle to Cara, “I’ll cover you and he’ll throw in the charge.”

“Cover me,” Cara said to Din, and it stung more sharply than he would have expected. So she didn’t trust him. Neither did Din. Would Boba ever forget that?

Boba watched from behind the wall, as Din took the charge, ran towards the AT-ST and threw the charge into the cockpit window. He slid into the other pond, ducking down for cover. Everything was fluid, powerful, and all Boba could do was watch him, entranced, barely noticing the ensuing explosion, the AT-ST sinking into the pond.

This was it, then. If Boba told Din he was leaving, Din might ask him to stay, and Boba – he would. If he said goodbye, he wouldn’t be able to leave, he’d stay and let Din hurt him forever without even meaning to and ruin the life Din could have here. There was nothing to do besides slink back to the life Boba had had before, at least make enough of a name for himself to ward off the feelings of being nothing. If Din heard about him after this, it would just confirm what he’d already known about Boba, what he’d been thinking when he thought Boba had betrayed him – maybe he wouldn’t even wonder if being with him had mattered, to Boba, and that was why Boba couldn’t stay.

Boba let himself look at Din for only a moment longer – his glinting Beskar, his broad shoulders, how he stood so perfectly still, big and imposing and so very safe. Boba exhaled slowly, and turned away.

He stopped to say goodbye to the child. That, he couldn’t resist. The child couldn’t ask him to stay, at least. They’d hidden it in a hut at the back of the village, with strict instructions to stay put, and it shrieked gleefully when Boba opened the door.

“Hey there,” Boba scooped it up, cradled it in his arms. “I have to go now,” he told it, and the child’s ears tilted downward, its eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I have to. He’ll stay with you, okay? You don’t need me, too.” The child gave a warbling little sound. “You’re going to be okay, I promise. He found you,” Boba said, touched the child’s ear with his fingertips. “That’s all you need. You’re going to be okay from now on.”

When he set the child down, it cried, and he had to walk away. The child didn’t know who he was, not really; it didn’t know that he was so much more and less than just the one who rocked it to sleep, carried it when it reached for him. He could hear it crying, seemingly the entire way to the raiders’ camp.

Boba did the only thing he could: he stole a ship, contacted the Empire, and fell back into his old life. The sooner he forgot about this, the better, but he knew he never would – these few days where he’d felt like _someone,_ someone worth saving and someone who mattered, where he hadn’t been nothing, where he’d been _more._ For a few days, he’d had Din; the gentleness would haunt him forever.


	8. Chapter 8

Tatooine.

His Empire contact’s message had been curt, though they had waited for hours to contact him, hours where he waited in the ship, pacing and struggling to remember that the ship wasn’t getting smaller. He’d flown away from Sorgan and stopped at the nearest planet – Tatooine. The Admiral he’d failed to kill had hired an elite mercenary to protect him, and Boba was to take her out before he could employ her. Pay wasn’t discussed; Boba knew he wouldn’t be getting any, would maybe be earning the chance to run away before they killed him for his failed first job. He couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. He’d figure it out, somehow. He seemingly always did.

The job itself was almost insultingly easy. Fennec Shand had last been tracked in Bestine, which meant she was going to catch a ride in Mos Eisley to take her to the Admiral. All Boba had to do was find her in between the two towns and kill her. The job wasn’t what worried him. What worried him revealed itself the moment he left his stolen ship, stepped out into the desert.

He’d never wanted to come back to Tatooine. The familiar desert was already making his heart race, and he felt immobilized by its familiarity. He forced himself to keep going; he took a speeder so it would at least feel different, so he wouldn’t be walking through the desert exactly like he’d done before. He almost could forget he’d ever left, ever escaped; he could have dreamed the entire thing, dreamed Din saving him.

Boba knew the route she would be taking. She’d worked for the Hutts, too, and doubtlessly crossed Tatooine many times. She’d know the route to take to avoid the Jawas, would stick to the rocky, land without canyons or hills, where they avoided taking their crawling vehicles and found fewer hiding places.

It took longer than it should have. He kept _stopping,_ kept forgetting to move forward; he’d look out at the sand for too long and he’d slow, hands tight on the handles of the speederbike, clutching them like he was in danger of being torn away. He kept _looking_ for it, and he kept thinking he saw it; a flash of movement just over a dune, a dark spot in the sand out in the distance. It wasn’t even _there,_ but something in him reacted like it was – seizing up with panic, shutting down.

Was this just how he _was,_ now? Was this it? He was so fucking _scared,_ he’d never been scared of anything before and all it took now was to be on Tatooine, all it took was to see a dune and become convinced the Sarlacc was on the other side and suddenly Boba was crumpling, head in his hands as he struggled to breathe, his heart racing wildly. It wasn’t here, he couldn’t fall back in, it wasn’t coming for him, he kept trying to tell himself. If he fell back in, no one would come for him. Din wouldn’t know where to find him, wouldn’t be coming again. Boba wished he never had, because now, now he would be _waiting_ for it. He’d eventually, inevitably, lay dying, and think Din would come to save him, and it would hurt _so badly_ when Din didn’t come.

Boba spent the night in the desert, though he couldn’t sleep. Every sound made him flinch, but the silence was almost worse, crushing him from all sides, for hours and hours and _hours._ Every time he woke up, he looked over his shoulder for Din, and Din wasn’t _there,_ a loss Boba suffered over and over _._ Din wasn’t there, and he wouldn’t _want to be._

When Boba found Shand, she wasn’t alone. Boba had taken cover behind a group of boulders when he’d seen the two figures far across the sand, and he peered through his rifle scope, trying to discern who the second person was. The first was definitely Shand, and it was a relief to be so far away, to not see her face and remember it from the Hutt’s palace. She was on her knees, handcuffed. The man was really more of a kid, and he was talking to her, waving his blaster around. A bounty hunter, probably. Boba could kill him, too. He didn’t really care what happened to the guy.

Boba lined up his shot, and fired. Shand fell to the ground. The bounty hunter whipped around, trying to find the source of the shot.

“Behind her, stupid,” Boba muttered, watching as the kid inexplicably looked to the left and right. Boba should kill him, too, but instead just watched him climb on the speeder and disappear from view. It didn’t matter.

Once the bounty hunter had disappeared from view, Boba lay his rifle down. That – that was it. Shand was dead. He could leave. He could leave Tatooine and never, _never_ come back, except – the Sarlacc was still out there. It was out there and he’d escaped, but maybe he hadn’t. Some part of him was stuck there, forever, and he needed to see it. Even though false sightings of it made him shake and sweat, he needed to see it.

When he was looking for it deliberately, it was easy to find. Boba _knew_ where the Sarlacc was, how could he ever forget? It drew him in with a sickening magnetism, this place where he’d fallen, where he’d faced his own nothingness. Could he really have survived, if he still felt this way?

He found it. He left the speeder at the bottom of the hill and climbed up slowly, and when he got to the top, all he could do was sink to his knees. It was a safe distance away, but was _anywhere_ far away enough? The Sarlacc was a dark pit in the sand, an endless dark, and Boba knew what was inside it. Dark, enclosed, damp, that thing that whispered to him, _you will feel like this forever._

Boba didn’t know what he’d been expecting to feel. Mostly, he felt panic welling up in him, a desperate need to sob as though he’d never escaped. Maybe because this _didn’t_ feel like escaping. He still struggled to breathe when the walls closed in on him, he still _heard it,_ whispering to him in his head, he’d clawed his way out only to feel like he’d never left. The way he felt while right in front of it was the same way he’d felt many times already when he was planets away, and did it really count as escaping, if it could follow him like that? Boba didn’t know where to go next, but it didn’t feel like it mattered; nowhere he went would take him away from here. Every time he remembered it, every time his heart started racing and he couldn’t breathe around the panic, he came right back, he’d _never escape._

The silence was so deafening, so endless, he almost didn’t understand what he was hearing. After what had to be hours of silence, a sound like an approaching speeder. Footsteps. He was imagining it, surely; Din had come for him once, and no one would come for him again.

It was _Din._

Boba thought he might sob from relief, from the desperate need to be near him again. Din was back, was _here,_ had come for him again. Din leaned down, placed the child into Boba’s arms, and Boba held it close against his chest.

“Ba,” the child cooed, and it was saying Boba’s _name_. It knew him, and it knew him as _this,_ as the one who cradled it like this, and Boba squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden threat of tears. The child said his name like it meant good things. Din sank down into the sand beside him, looking out at the pit; the closeness of his body to Boba’s was a relief Boba hadn’t known he could ever feel again.

 _What are you doing,_ Boba wanted to ask him, plead to know; tears trickled down his cheeks already and he bit down on his lower lip, struggled not to fall apart in an entirely different way than he had been moments before.

“When I was twenty,” Din said slowly, softly, “I went back to the village where my parents had been killed. I couldn’t forget anything about it, but I wanted to see it again. Not to see the place, but to see it as a different version of myself. It felt like the only way to know that I’d gotten past it. I wanted to see it from the other side.” He looked over at Boba. How hadn’t Boba somehow _been_ there? He wished he’d been there, to hold Din’s hand. He’d lost everyone just like Boba had; Boba had never been grateful for anything the way he was suddenly grateful for the Mandalorians who had found Din, and kept him from being alone. “That’s how I knew you’d be here.”

He knew. No one else had ever known before, no one else had ever thought that Boba _could_ feel anything, and Din knew everything. Boba traced his fingertip along the child’s ear, couldn’t look away from it, this tiny child who gazed at him like he was comforting. Boba never thought he’d see it again, never thought he’d see Din again. No one ever came for him, but here Din was.

“No one else ever thinks to look,” Boba said quietly. “They just wait to hear what happens next. I’m the same thing I always was. Of course you would think I’d turn on you. It’s what I do.” He couldn’t blame Din, he couldn’t ever blame Din for seeing him the way he’d made himself.

“You haven’t done it to me.”

“Thought about it. After everything you did for me, there was a second where I thought about it. Probably would have kept them from wanting to kill me for fucking up on Mustafar. They told me the admiral I let escape is trying to hire a mercenary, now that he knows he’s been found. They told me to kill her before she could be hired. Probably just because I was already here.” Why _had_ he come here? He’d left Sorgan and when he realized the nearest planet was Tatooine, he’d just waited in orbit above it. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stop feeling the effects of what had happened here, maybe it was because if he was at least in sight of it, he could explain the way he felt, blame it on the planet below.

“Fennec Shand,” Din said, and Boba tilted his head to look at him, because Din couldn’t possibly know that. “I was working with a bounty hunter going after her.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Killed him. He tried to take the little one.” Great. Boba had let him live, and the man had gone on to try and take the child. No matter what Boba did, his actions set off a nonstop spiral of tragedy. Of course the one person he let live would do something like this, put the child and Din through that again. It wasn’t long ago that Din had thought Boba was doing the same thing. Boba cupped the back of the child’s head protectively, apologetically, wondered if it had thought he was turning on them, too. It had been asleep the entire time, but when it had woken up to them acting differently around each other, had it known?

“Guess I got off easy, then.” He was no better than the bounty hunter Din had killed. No better than anyone, any of the clones, just worse, only ever worse. Din shifted closer, bumped Boba’s shoulder with his own; Boba thought of being carried by him, and thought he might fall apart. His eyes stung with tears again, pushed his fingers beneath his helmet to swipe at the wet streaks on his face.

“You didn’t turn on us.” Din reached to touch the child’s tiny hand, resting on Boba’s Beskar gauntlet. “You didn’t have to leave.”

“You guys are safer without me.” No matter what he did, even when he was _trying,_ it hurt them.

“Of course we’re not,” Din said, but then he paused. “I don’t know you that well,” Din said slowly, “but I know what you were. I can tell that you’re not the same anymore.”

Could he? Boba wanted to beg for proof. He didn’t know _what_ he was anymore, didn’t know how to be anything. He’d spent a year being broken down into the nothing he’d begun as, losing everything he’d done and realizing that none of it mattered. And Din – Din thought he’d come back out as something different. Not nothing. He’d seen remnants of what Boba was before, had seen it come back to life when he’d thought Boba betrayed him, but maybe the only reason he’d been so angry, so _hurt,_ wasn’t because he hated Boba in that moment the way everyone else did. Maybe it was because he _had_ believed Boba was something. It could only have felt like a betrayal if he’d ever believed Boba was really, truly different.

“I can’t get out. They’re not just going to forget they hired me to kill the admiral and I failed. And sooner or later, they’ll figure out I’m with the kid.” He couldn’t put them at risk. He couldn’t. He thought he might break apart if he didn’t stay with them, but he _couldn’t._

“They’ll know it escaped either way. Wouldn’t you rather be there, the day they come for it? It needs you to protect it.”

“It has you.” The child had put its head down on Boba’s arm, closed its eyes. Its ability to be comforted by him still amazed Boba.

“Don’t make me do it alone,” Din said, and that was it, for Boba. Din didn’t want to be alone, and wanted Boba with him – that was it. “Look, I can admit I don’t know how to extract someone from a lifetime serving the Empire. But you never have to continue the way you’re going.” Except – that was all Boba _had._ If he wasn’t this – if he wasn’t his reputation, Din didn’t seem to realize that there wasn’t anything _except_ that. Nothing was his own.

“If I’m not this, I’m nothing.” A clone. If he wasn’t this, there was no reason for him to have been the one that was picked out as special. If he wasn’t this, there was no reason he shouldn’t have died like all the rest. He’d always _needed_ to become something, because his father treated the other clones as expendable, because they were sent to die and he wasn’t, but if there was _no difference_ between them, it meant that he didn’t matter, either. Boba stared out at the Sarlacc pit, the writhing tentacles against the darkening sky making him shudder, his throat close up. He’d nearly died like them: pointlessly, unmourned.

“You’re a Mandalorian,” Din said softly. “We were already legends.”

Boba wasn’t a Mandalorian. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Din, who seemed to look at him and see a shared noble history. The only word Boba knew in Mando’a was _dar’manda,_ an exile who had lost his history and with it, his soul; his father had walked away from the Mandalorians and told Boba that he only needed the people who accepted him, then left him with no one. Boba was a clone, except when the Mandalorians looked at him – then, he was his father, and he wasn’t wanted. His legacy was a thousand dead men who were exact copies of him.

“I’ll tell you what you are,” Din said. His voice was so deep, it reached Boba at his very core. “You’re the one who saved the kid with me. You protected me from the Guild. When I’m with other people, I’m still alone, but when I’m with you –” Din paused. It almost sounded like Boba was something – something special, to him, something other people weren’t. Something real. “Starting from Mustafar, you might not have been the same as you were before, but you’re –” he stopped again, thought for a long moment. Boba waited with his breath held. “ _Ner werlaara,”_ he said, slowly so Boba could catch all the letters, if not the meaning. Boba couldn’t remember the last time he’d _wanted_ to be a Mandalorian, but here, now, sitting beside Din at the place where he’d nearly died an unimportant death, Boba wanted to be part of a great legend, just so he could know what Din was saying to him, in his gentle, deep voice.

Redeemable, maybe. Distinct. Something Din _wanted_. Boba wanted desperately to know what the Mando’a words meant, but even if they couldn’t tell him what Din was feeling, the things he hoped they meant were making something else perfectly clear. He desperately hoped Din wanted him, because Boba had been swept away by Din’s deep voice and gentle hands, his legendary kindness, his forgiveness. The more Boba learned about him, the more he was going to fall in love with Din, an endless, unsaveable fall.

“You’re coming back with me,” Din said. “It’s where you belong.”

Boba would have gone anywhere with him. The enormity of his desperation threatened to overtake him, and how could Din be here, at all? The Sarlacc still lay beyond the dune, reminding Boba where he’d come from, what he was, but maybe if Boba left here with Din, he would really be leaving. He took a breath, reached tentatively for Din’s hand, curled his fingers around Din’s as much as he dared.

“I never want to come back here,” he murmured. He wanted to go with Din, wanted to stay with Din, wanted to be someone who could do something besides hurt, someone who could fall in love. Din turned his hand palm-up, and held Boba’s fingers gently. Boba squeezed his eyes shut against tears again.

“We never will,” Din said, and suddenly, Boba wasn’t alone anymore. It felt like a permanent shift, the cursed planet tilting on its axis until the gravity felt different. _We never will,_ because they were going to stay together, so Din could promise on behalf of both of them.

Din stood; he didn’t let go of Boba’s hand, just helped him to his feet, the child still sleeping in Boba’s arms. Boba drew in a slow breath as he looked down at the Sarlacc pit. Even if he never came back, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he saw it, it would keep living on in his head, keep rearing up in his nightmares.

“Ready?” Din asked. Had anyone gone with him, when he’d gone to see his village? Where had Boba been, when Din was twenty and needed a hand to hold? Din was so steady now, so calm, and though they seemed to have had similar beginnings, Boba had gone so far in another direction from him.

When Din was twenty, Boba was across the galaxy and so heartbrokenly angry; it must have been right around the time that most of the remaining clones had been killed, and Boba had been hysterical with guilt and purposelessness. Boba had _helped,_ had let the Empire convince him to help wipe out the new batch of clones made by the Kaminoans, and Boba had done it, because he’d thought it would make him feel separate from them, _different._ It hadn’t worked, of course it hadn’t worked, he’d never felt so much like a clone in his life as when he was watching them die, was _killing them._ When Din was twenty and seeking peace after a tragedy, Boba was wielding violence in an attempt to sever himself from his own inescapable beginnings.

“Almost.” Boba could barely hear his own voice. Din stayed, though, kept holding his hand as Boba looked out at the Sarlacc pit. If he hadn’t fallen in, he wouldn’t have had to crawl back out and he wouldn’t have ended up on Mustafar, desperately trying to put his identity back together. He wouldn’t have had his already-tenuous sense of self ripped to shreds. He wouldn’t have been found by Din. He wouldn’t be haunted, dissolved to nothing, but he also wouldn’t have tried to find himself beyond the terrible things he’d done.

Boba turned away, turned to Din.

Din understood, and led him back down the dune, away from the Sarlacc; Boba could almost be back in the day when he’d escaped, could believe that Din had found him in the desert and saved him from here, too.

The trip back to Din’s ship was thankfully quick; Boba was ready to be out of the desert, to never come back. Since leaving Kamino, the year he’d spent on Tatooine had been the longest he’d spent on a planet. It had been a torturous mirror, being earthbound when the last time he’d stayed for so long in one place, it had been because he hadn’t lost anything yet, because his life was still whole. His time on Tatooine had been a year-long process of losing, of losing his grip on the things he thought made him a real person and not just a clone, left him with only the realization that none of them really mattered, that he was nothing. Boba was grateful the moment he stepped off the sand and into the ship.

He never thought he’d be back in Din’s ship, in the cockpit with the child sleeping in his lap, Din in the captain’s chair, close enough to touch. They left Tatooine immediately, like Din didn’t want to be there anymore, even though they had no destination yet. Boba sent a message to his Empire contact to report that Shand was dead, received an unusually prompt response back that said only “Message received. Your services are no longer required.”

“So that’s it?” Din asked. Boba snorted.

“Yeah. Free to go about my life,” he said, “at least until they kill me for knowing too much and being unable to do anything for them.” He reached up to take off his helmet and dropped it into the corner behind him, then pulled off his glove, ran his fingers through his hair. It was somehow easier, to let Din see his face, knowing that Din saw _something_ and not just a clone. “You,” Boba added to the child, “need to go to bed. In a bed.” He stood, lifted the child to his shoulder and brought it down the ladder. The child’s cradle was nearby, but Boba wrapped it in a blanket instead, settled it onto the bed in the compartment beside the weaponry locker. He stripped off the rest of his armor, and knew he should sleep but lingered instead, sat at the foot of the bed and leaned in to check on the child again. Din climbed down the ladder, stopped to watch him.

“I can’t take your bed. If I’m – you know. Sticking around.” The idea made his heart beat faster, but for once, not unpleasantly. “You take the bed and I’ll go upstairs.”

“I don’t know,” Din said, although no part of it seemed all that confusing to Boba. Boba started to push himself up off the bed, but the child felt the movement and began to cry.

“Ba?” it whimpered, “Ba!”

“Hey, no,” Boba murmured, leaned back over it. It thought he was leaving forever, again; how long would it take, before it trusted that he’d return? Din started to walk back towards the cockpit, but at the sound of his receding footsteps, the child’s eyes widened and it started crying again. “Shh, shh,” Boba tried, but nothing helped until Din came back.

“It’s fine. We’ll just sit with it for a bit, until it falls asleep,” Din said. He started removing armor; not his helmet, but his shoulder pauldrons, his chestplate, gauntlets. Boba tried not to stare from where he lay on the bed, but all he wanted to do was reach for Din, feel how broad and solid he was, all the armor finally coming off so he could see the shape of Din’s shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the breadth of his chest. The _size_ of him, Boba wanted Din to climb onto the bed and pin him down, make Boba really _feel_ how much bigger he was, keep Boba right where he wanted him so all Boba would feel was him _._ Boba shifted, pressed his hips down into the bed so Din wouldn’t see that he was half hard already, just from watching him partially undress. Fuck, Boba wanted Din to touch him.

Din seemed oblivious, and he climbed right past Boba into the bed compartment, sat with his back to the wall. The child cooed happily between them, and Boba propped his cheek against his fist, tried to stop looking at Din. Din was so close, so _big,_ and Boba wanted to lean into him, wanted Din’s big hands on him again.

“I’ll leave once it’s asleep,” Boba said, though he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, wanted _Din_ to stay, wanted Din to be here every time he woke up from another nightmare about being back in the dark. It wouldn’t feel like waking up to the same darkness, he thought, if he wasn’t alone.

“What do we do now?” Din asked, and he sounded so completely honest that Boba couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I don’t know. We’ll need to fuel to do it though, so maybe we should pick up a job.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Oh, come on. With your Guild contacts and my Empire ones, we’re swimming in bounties.” He arched an eyebrow and smirked up at Din. It was incredible that he could talk about it without feeling sick, but with Din here, so close that he could reach out and touch Boba, it felt like nothing in the past could reach him. Din had come to save him on Mustafar and now, Din had led him away from the Sarlacc pit, like Boba had been saved from it after all. “Maybe they’ll let me take another crack at Solo.”

Din snorted with laughter. “If that doesn’t work out, I used to work with a guy who once shot me just to create a diversion,” Din said, then paused. “Maybe I should get in touch.”

“Hey, we’re doing my suicide mission first,” Boba yawned, “get in line. _First,_ Solo feeds us to Terentateks, and if we survive that, we’ll let your guy use us for target practice.”

“He might actually have a job. I promise I’ll be the one to volunteer for diversion duty.”

“It’s okay. I’ll shoot him first.” Like Boba would let anyone shoot Din. Whatever else he was or wasn’t, he was still the galaxy’s most feared bounty hunter, and he’d throw his weight around all he needed to protect Din. Boba slid further down, lay his head on his arm and tried not to close his eyes. He didn’t want to sleep alone. He couldn’t stay, couldn’t just take Din’s bed, but he wanted to stay.

“I’ll go,” Boba mumbled, closing his eyes, just for a moment. He was so tired, and this was the first time sleeping didn’t make him nervous, Din so close Boba could reach out and touch him with barely any effort.

“Just sleep, _werlaara,”_ Din said, that word Boba didn’t know. Maybe for now, all it had to mean was this, was Din’s gentle voice and his forgiveness, his presence in the dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Watching from the cockpit as Din walked away was becoming a familiar feeling. Boba still didn’t like it; he sat in Din’s chair and looked out the viewscreen so he could watch Din make his way through the busy space station they’d landed in. Din’s old contact had come through with a job, and Boba wasn’t about to let Din go into it alone, but had reluctantly agreed that Din should do the initial meeting alone. Boba’s presence didn’t tend to signal good news for people.

“You remember what you’re going to do, right?” Boba asked, looking over his shoulder. The child was sitting on the passenger seat, and its ears turned up at the sound of his voice.

“Ba?” it chirped.

“What’re you going to do while we’re gone? Do you remember?” Din had disappeared into the crowd, so Boba turned to face the child. The child put its tiny hands over its mouth, ears wiggling enthusiastically. “That’s right, great job. You’re going to be very quiet, and take a nap, and when we get back, you and me can go see if he’s got any of those terrible spicy ration bars left.” The child squealed at his words. The variety of food on the ship was limited, although Boba had been entertained to see that despite the few options, over half were spicy varieties. The child had stuffed one into its mouth before Boba could stop it, leading to the discovery that it loved spiciness, as if it had been raised with the Mandalorians and only ever eaten their traditionally spicy food. As if Boba needed further proof that he wasn’t a Mandalorian, he couldn’t stand anything spicy.

“You ready?” Boba stood, leaned down to pick up the child. As usual, it reached for the rangefinder on his helmet. “What did we say?” Boba asked, as he started for the ladder. The child grumbled in reluctant agreement. “Not a toy, right.” Where _could_ he get a toy for the kid, he wondered. He’d have to look into it.

When he set the child down on the bed and tucked it beneath a blanket, it closed its eyes, and Boba started to step backward, but was stopped by the child’s one-note humming. For a moment, he was confused, and then he realized what it was asking for. When he didn’t immediately oblige, the child hummed again, louder.

“Okay,” Boba sat on the end of the bed, tucked the blankets around the child’s wiggling toes and started humming softly, the way he had on Sorgan while walking the child in circles until it fell asleep. Boba’s father had sung him to sleep, when he was little. Boba had been afraid of the dark, and the lullaby had been about a brave little warrior who went into the dark forest to fight a monster. When the little warrior came back and was asked if he’d been scared, he said he’d forgotten to be scared, because all he’d thought about was protecting everyone. A warrior was more than his armor, the lullaby had ended, it was his heart that made him a warrior. It didn’t rhyme and didn’t seem particularly well set to the melody, but Boba had always liked it. Thinking about it, he realized that at some point, he’d started mumbling the words out loud, and the child had fallen asleep.

Surely Din would be returning by now; Boba closed the door to the bed compartment, cast a last look at it before he went to put down the ship’s ramp. He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, watching people move busily around the space station, waited. Every now and then, someone would catch sight of him and freeze, wide-eyed. When he didn’t move, they hurried out of sight each time.

After only a few minutes, Boba finally spotted Din; he was coming closer with two other men, one of whom matched Din’s description of Ran and the other a skinny redhead. The redheaded one saw Boba first, stopped short and gaped. They started talking amongst themselves, Ran looking surprised and the redhead looking furious. Boba left the ship, closed the ramp behind him before walking over to the three of them.

“No questions when you bring along that fucker?” the redhead was yelling, pointing in Boba’s direction. “I have some questions!”

Though he couldn’t hear Din’s voice, Boba knew from the tilt of Din’s head that he was saying something antagonizing in response.

“I’m not paying him,” Ran said, as Boba approached.

“You couldn’t afford it.” Boba took a closer look at the pair of them. Ran didn’t concern him much. The angry one would be causing problems for them the first chance he got. “Who are you?”

“I’m in charge, asshole. No one said you’d be joining us on this little excursion,” the angry one snapped at Boba. Boba crossed his arms. The asshole would definitely be trying to cause problems.

“Consider it your lucky day. Where’s the rest of you?”

They answered his question by bringing them over towards a group who were moving supplies, near the Crest. Apparently they’d decided to take the ship, and Boba couldn’t think of a way to argue. The child would be fine, hidden in the compartment. It would be fine. Boba hated this plan.

“There they are,” Asshole said. “That good looking fella there with the horns, that’s Burg.” A gigantic, red-skinned wall of muscle stared at them, dropped the crate he held. “This may surprise you, but he’s our muscle.”

Burg came to inspect them, and he looked over Boba, but chose to step up to Din, snarling. “So this is a Mandalorian. Thought they’d be bigger.” Kind of funny, when Boba thought about how his first impression of Din had been that he was so big, so broad; he still made Boba feel small in comparison.

“The droid’s name is Zero,” Asshole continued, as a spindly droid approached them.

“Thought you said you had four,” Din said. Boba was ready for them to stop producing teammates, didn’t like feeling quite this outnumbered. Three to two was enough.

“He does,” a woman’s voice purred, and a Twi’lek strode into view. She turned a knife between her purple fingers, leering at Din. “Hello, Mando.”

“Xi’an,” Din grunted.

“Who the hell is this?” Boba muttered under his breath before he could stop himself. He just – he didn’t like the way she looked at Din, like she’d owned him before and released him. She gave Boba a momentary, appraising look before her gaze slid back to Din.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” she said, and then she suddenly jumped forward, holding a knife at Din’s throat. Din didn’t flinch, but Boba took a startled step backward at the movement, immediately hated himself for it. This was worse than Asshole and his clear intention to cause problems. Boba didn’t know what this was, what she wanted, except that it – it seemed like what she wanted was _Din._

“Nice to see you too,” Din said flatly as she smirked at him across her knife blade. 

“I missed you,” she lowered the knife, clinked it against his armor. She was _touching_ him, kept touching him, and Boba’s hands curled into fists at the sight. “This is shiny. You wear it well.”

“Sorry to break up the reunion,” Boba said, stepped beside Din, couldn’t help himself. How _dare_ she touch him? Boba propped his elbow on Din’s broad shoulder, looked Xi’an up and down slowly. If there was any part of her that was afraid of him, he wanted to remind her of its existence. “Never heard of you,” he sneered. Her eyes narrowed, and then she gave a luxurious smile that chilled him.

“Maybe you aren’t important enough, then,” she retorted. Boba flinched involuntarily, and he stepped backward, elbow siding off of Din’s shoulder. _Was_ she important to Din?

Was he?

“Xi’an’s been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group,” Ran contributed, and Boba didn’t know what the fuck that meant, but he didn’t like it. Had – had _Din_ been heartbroken since leaving? Was he still? Would Boba even know what that looked like?

“Aw, you gonna be okay, sweetheart?” Asshole said, and Xi’an’s grin widened as she pointed a knife at Din.

“I’m all business now. Learned from the best.”

“All right, lovebirds,” Ran said, “break it up till you get on the ship. We don’t have much time.” Xi’an winked over her shoulder at Din before she followed the rest of the group away, and Boba didn’t risk looking at Din at all. She didn’t seem like someone Din would be interested in, but what if Boba was wrong? Who the hell was he to judge anyone, anyways? No matter what she’d done or how awful she was, could she really be worse than _him?_ He would be asking Din to accept a lot more, to be his.

They showed a hologram of a ship, clearly a New Republic prison ship, although Asshole brought up the hologram and started talking without acknowledging that fact. Boba crossed his arms, scowling. “Package is being moved on a fortified transport ship,” Asshole was saying, “We got a limited window to board, find our friend, get him outta there, before they make their jump.”

“That’s a New Republic prison ship,” Din interrupted, “Your man wasn’t taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested.”

“So what?” Asshole shot back. Xi’an kept looking at Din, though Din didn’t seem to notice. The back of Boba’s neck felt hot, suddenly, and he clenched his teeth as he watched her.

“That’s a max security transport. I’m not looking for that kind of heat,” Din said, and Xi’an laughed.

“You’re the one that brought the big guns,” she tittered, pursing her lips towards Boba. “You came more prepared than any of us.”

“I’m not here to protect you,” Boba snarled. “Don’t forget it.” They should have gone to the Empire instead. Nothing there could be as bad as watching her flirt with Din like she had a right to. Nothing could be as bad as finding out that she _did_ have a right.

“The good news for you is the ship is manned by droids,” Xi’an said, turned back to Boba. “He hates the machines,” she told him in a mock whisper, which was news to Boba. Din hated droids? Why didn’t Boba know that? Did he know _anything?_ “In case you didn’t know that, either.”

“Despite recent modifications, the ship is still quite a mess,” Zero announced, coming down the ramp towards them. “The power lines are leaking. The navigation is intermittent. The hyperdrive is only operating at 67.3% efficiency. We have much better ships. Why are we using this one?”

“Yeah, like why not use the Slave?” Asshole asked, then grinned in Boba’s direction, eyes slits. “Oh, right. Probably got repo’d while you wasted away in a pit.” Even the small mention of the pit made Boba feel sick suddenly, and he fought to push it away.

“You didn’t hire me,” Boba drawled. “Best you don’t forget that.” He didn’t move until Asshole looked away first. At least someone knew who the fuck Boba was. Xi’an seemed to have realized she held something over his head, even if she didn’t quite know why, and Boba _hated it._

“The Razor Crest is off the old Imperial and the New Republic grid,” Ran said, “it’s a ghost.”

“We need a ship that can get close enough to jam New Republic code. So when we drop out of hyperspace here,” Asshole pointed to a spot on his hologram, “if we immediately bank into this kind of attitude, we should be right in their blind spot, which should give us just enough time for your ship to scramble our signal.”

“It’s not possible,” Din protested, “Even for the Crest.”

“That’s why he’s flying,” Ran nodded to Zero, and Asshole laughed, clearly delighted at Din’s displeasure. “Mando, I know you’re a pretty good pilot, but we need you on the trigger, not on the wheel.”

“Don’t worry, Mandalorian,” Zero chirped, “My response time is quicker than organics, and I’m smarter, too.” It whirred an instrument in Din’s direction, and Din didn’t move. Why did he hate droids? Boba knew nothing. He hated it.

“Alright, that’s good,” Ran shooed the droid back towards the ship, stepping in between them. “Forgive the programming. He’s a little rough around the edges. But he is the best.”

“How can you trust it?” Din asked.

“You know me, man. I don’t trust anybody.” Ran grinned. “Just like the good old days, huh, Mando?” The good old days? Din had sounded disdainful of his time spent with Ran, when he’d talked about it. Then again, he hadn’t mentioned Xi’an. 

The rest of the group trooped onto Din’s ship when he lowered the ramp, and Boba followed, moved immediately to stand in front of the bed compartment. He propped his shoulder into the corner, effectively blocking it, and watched as Din passed, continuing on to the cockpit to join the droid. The others stayed below decks, to Boba’s disappointment.

“There a reason you’re gracing us with your presence?” Asshole asked, dragging over a crate to sit on. Boba scowled, though Asshole couldn’t see it.

“No.”

“You ever heard of this guy, Burg?” Asshole said, as Burg poked at a closed compartment that housed only medical supplies. “Greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy! More of a trained attack dog for the Empire, if you ask me,” Asshole shrugged, grinned humorlessly. “And then, what, trips and falls into a Sarlacc pit? Laughed my ass off when I heard that.” Boba felt his chest tightening, breathed in and out slowly, deliberately. He wasn’t going to think about it. The closing-in walls and the dark and the never-ending time and the _walls,_ and he panicked at just the encroaching feeling of hysteria, wanted to plead _not now, oh, please, not now, not in front of them –_

“How was it down there?” Xi’an purred, coming around the corner from the cargo bay. Her tongue flicked between her sharp teeth. Burg loomed on Boba’s other side, snickering.

“Probably a real vacation, huh, Fett? Nice break from being the Empire’s lackey?” Asshole said. Xi’an started twirling her knife between her fingers again, but she didn’t look away from Boba, still smirking.

He didn’t want to _think_ about being down there, what the fuck was _wrong_ with these people? Boba pressed his shoulder harder into the door to steady himself, gritted his teeth. He was fine. He was fine. He couldn’t breathe. He felt hot all over.

“Always sounded to me like you’d do anything to get paid,” Asshole jeered, “That true?” The heat receded, slightly; Boba snatched at the change in topic.

“Sure sounds like you heard a lot about me,” he said, fought to keep his voice even, “You and everyone else in the galaxy, anyways. Congratulations on all the insider information.”

“I guess I was too busy to hear about you,” Xi’an said, her voice a purr, “Spent a lot of time with Mando, back in the day. Didn’t come up for air much.” What the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean? Boba hated this, hated every part of it. A rattling to his right made him look over, to find Burg opening another cabinet.

“Where’s your jetpack?” Asshole asked, “Find the famous jetpack in there, Burg?” Burg chuckled.

“Not yet,” he said, “Gotta be here somewhere.” The next cabinet he tried to open was the weaponry locker, and Boba jumped forward to slam it closed, maybe a little more unsteady on his feet than he was willing to admit. The last thing they needed was an overly armed four-on-two scenario. Burg’s next move was to reach for the release button to the bed compartment, and Boba didn’t know Din had even come back down until he saw Din jumping in to intercept Burg.

“Hey, hey, okay,” Asshole cut in, “I get it. I’m a little particular about my personal space too. Let’s just do this job. Get in, get out, and you don’t have to see our faces anymore.”

“Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” Burg grunted.

“Well, apparently they’re the greatest warriors in the galaxy,” Asshole replied, before his gaze slid over to Boba. “Or whatever you can call what they do.”

“Then why are they all dead?” Burg said, and Boba looked at Din, but Din didn’t react.

“We all know what you’ve been up to,” Asshole said to Boba, “And you flew with Mando, Xi’an,” Asshole said to Xi’an, as though they needed any reminders that Xi’an already knew Din, “Is he as good as they say?” Xi’an had taken Asshole’s crate in the corner, paused in playing with her knife.

“Ask him about the job on Alzoc III,” she said, her words heavy with implications that were a mystery to Boba.

“I did what I had to do,” Din said, flat, unaffected.

“Oh, but you liked it,” Xi’an purred, “See, I know who you really are.” _Did_ she? Boba had thought _he_ knew who Din was.

“He never takes off the helmet?” Asshole asked. Xi’an giggled.

“This is the way,” she mimicked. Had Din _said_ that to her before? It wasn’t Boba’s to share with him, either, but it still felt like giving her something too personal, even though he was no more a Mandalorian than her. Did he share _anything_ with Din?

“How come you get a name and he doesn’t?” Asshole asked, jerking his chin towards Boba. “They kick you out or something?”

“How else would everyone know who I am?” For once, it felt unimportant. Whoever Boba was, all he could think about now was whether it was someone that shared anything with Din. He already couldn’t understand when Din spoke to him in Mando’a. Couldn’t understand his culture, because Boba had been kept out of it. Didn’t know his past.

“Wonder what you look like under there,” Asshole turned back to Din, “You ever see his face, Xi’an?”

“A lady never tells,” she purred, and Boba somehow felt even worse. He – he didn’t have any idea what Din looked like. How was that just occurring to him _now?_ He knew Din’s voice, his hands, and it hadn’t occurred to him to want more, because that was already everything, but – he didn’t know Din’s face. He _wanted_ to. He might never get to. Boba looked to him helplessly, the featureless helmet that suddenly seemed to be hiding even more.

“Oh, come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here. Gotta show us something, just lift the helmet up. Let’s all see your eyes.” Asshole nodded to Burg, and then Burg was closing in on Din. Din reacted immediately, and in moments, had Burg’s arm behind his back, struggling to keep Burg from throwing him off with his considerable weight. Amidst the struggle, a door opened and Boba jerked towards the sound. The bed. The child. 

“What is that?” Asshole sounded delighted. The child cooed; Boba felt frozen in place. “You get lonely up here? Is it a pet or something, or did you and Xi’an make this?” he snickered, and Boba clenched his fists; it was a struggle to not throw himself at the guy, but if he reacted, if he let Asshole know how important, how _incredibly important_ , the child was, and then Asshole would _use_ it.

“Something like that,” Din said, his voice a taut growl. 

“Didn’t take you for the type. Maybe that code of yours has made you soft,” Xi’an was peering over at the child, trying to look around Asshole. If she so much as _looked_ at the baby, Boba would kill her. The kid was _his,_ was _his and Din’s._

“I was never really into pets. Didn’t have the temperament. Or patience. Never worked out, you know? Maybe I’ll try again with this little fella,” Asshole said, and then he was reaching for the child, and that was just too much for Boba to handle, first Xi’an looking at the baby and now Asshole trying to pick it up. Boba dove at him, slammed Asshole to the ground and pressed him there with an arm to his throat.

“How about,” Boba snarled, and so much for being calm so Asshole didn’t find out anything, but he couldn’t let any of this happen. “You don’t touch shit that isn’t yours.” Asshole held up his hands in surrender, but he hadn’t stopped smirking.

“Dropping out of hyperspace now.” Zero’s voice floated down from the cockpit, and the ship pitched abruptly. “Commencing final approach now. Cloaking signal now.” Zero continued; Boba saw Din dive to catch the child, clutch it close to his chest even when Burg nearly knocked him over. Asshole had slid away from Boba, crashed into Xi’an. “Engaging coupling now.”

The ship stopped moving violently as it slid into docking. “Coupling confirmed. We are down.” Boba got back to his feet, relieved when he saw that Din was still holding the child.

“Useless droid didn’t even give us a proper countdown,” Xi’an complained. Boba let himself step closer to Din to peek over his shoulder at the child before turning away again. He heard the door to the bed compartment close, but was it even safe, to leave the child now? Everything about this felt wrong. This was why he never worked with anyone, never gave anyone the power to do this to him, to make him uneasy and like everything was out of control. He couldn’t _survive_ this.

“We got a job to do,” Asshole said. “Mando, you’re up.”

Din knelt by the floor hatch, setup a hacking mechanism and had the door’s seal hissing open within moments. The prison ship’s hatch yawned open beneath them.

“It’s me?” Asshole asked, and Burg elbowed him.

“Always you.”

Asshole dropped down first, then Xi’an, and finally Burg. Boba looked back at the closed door to the bed compartment. He wanted to stay, to watch the child and make sure it was safe, but that would mean leaving Din with these people and Boba couldn’t trust them. Not with Din.

“He’ll be okay,” Boba said, and he hoped it was true, _needed_ it to be true. He circled the hatch to stand beside Din, still watching the door.

“I can handle this, if you want to stay.”

“No,” Boba said, more sharply than he’d intended, and ducked his head. “I don’t trust those assholes, you’re not going alone.” They couldn’t have Din. Boba’s possessiveness was founded on nothing, he was well aware, but he knew they couldn’t be trusted with Din. Din may not have been _his,_ exactly, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t have him.

Boba stepped forward and climbed down through the hatch, before he could say anything else, like _if you’re not mine, does that mean I can’t be yours._ He didn’t need to embarrass himself by saying it out loud; the ache growing in his chest told him the answer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget i'm on tumblr, with more boba/din content! icehot13

Initially, the prison ship didn’t bother Boba much. He’d been on prison ships before; intercepting prisoners was a high-risk, high-paying business. The only truly unsettling part was the people he and Din had brought with them, really. It wasn’t a place that would have bothered Boba before, but Din was determinedly not looking into the cells, one elbow held slightly higher so he would be ready to grab his blaster from its holster, his nervousness palpable.

“I don’t like this.” His voice was somehow even deeper than usual, weighted down by concern. Boba wanted to promise that it would be okay, that Boba had been places like this before, and nothing on this ship was any match for him. Did that matter, though? Din was a legend in his own right. He didn’t need Boba’s history of self-serving crime.

“You always were paranoid,” Xi’an sing-songed. Boba clenched his teeth automatically at the sound of her voice. “Did you know that about him?” she trilled, waggled her fingers in Boba’s direction. He snarled in response. No, he hadn’t known. He clearly didn’t know as much about Din as she did, but did that really mean what she was implying? He – he hadn’t known Din long, of course he didn’t know much, but wasn’t that okay? “Probably paranoid about you, too, I can’t imagine it’s easy to sleep when you’re nearby!”

She was probably right, but it still made Boba’s stomach turn. Din trusted him, at least to some extent, Boba was fairly sure of that. But – but when Boba had slept beside him, lulled to sleep by the comfort of Din’s presence, had Din been suspicious of him? Wondering if Boba could be trusted? Had he lay awake and watched him for movement, had he seen the way Boba would flinch out of sleep, breathing shallowly, and turn immediately to see if Din was still there, seen the way that comforted Boba back to sleep? Boba had never felt so simultaneously watched and unseen.

“Is that true, Mando? Are you always paranoid?” Asshole laughed, and it was gratifying to see the way he jumped in surprise when a prisoner slammed against a cell door. Xi’an and Burg laughed.

“Approaching control room,” Zero spoke through their radios, “make a left at the next juncture.”

“Hey!” a voice hissed from one of the cells, a blue, horned face that Boba recognized coming into view. “Fett!” Zingo Gabit, not that his name was worth remembering.

“Of course you’d have buddies here,” Asshole looked over his shoulder at Boba. “Why don’t you stay and have a nice visit? Maybe a picnic?”

“I see associating with rebels didn’t go well for you,” Boba didn’t pause as he passed Gabnit’s cell. No surprise, that Gabnit had ended up caught by the New Republic. A MSE-6 repair droid scuttled into view around the corner, and while the others froze, Burg stepped forward eagerly.

“It’s just a little mousey,” he laughed, drawing his blaster behind his back. Clearly, he was about to draw attention to them. Boba started stepping backwards, closer to Din.

“Burg!” Asshole kept protesting, until Burg ceased to listen and shot the small droid. Security droids interrupted them, rounding the corner and stopping at the sight of their group.

“Intruder alert,” they droned, “open fire.”

“C’mon,” Boba hissed, and Din obeyed immediately, ducking around the last corner they’d passed and pressing against the wall beside Boba. A wall of blasterfire exploded out from the security droids. All Boba could focus on was the way Din was breathing shallowly beside him, the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest. _I’ll keep you safe,_ Boba wanted to promise, but Din didn’t need that.

“Let’s go, Mando! You’re supposed to be some special – I knew it!” Asshole was shouting, probably realized they’d been abandoned in the hallway.

“Amateurs,” Boba muttered, moved quickly down the corridor and around a few corners until they’d come up behind the security droids.

He dropped down to one knee and brought up his blaster; reading his movements perfectly, Din responded by diving forward, sweeping the droids’ legs out from underneath them with a sliding tackle. From there, it was a quick series of movements to disarm, unbalance, and rapidly shoot the droids in quick succession; even when they were currently in danger, the absolute physicality of Din’s fighting nearly drove Boba to distraction. It was hard to remember to shoot, when Din was bodily throwing droids across the hallway and shooting with barely a look. It wasn’t the time, to picture Din grabbing him, throwing him down, his hands tight on Boba’s hips – Boba tracked his movements, and every time Din had to turn away from a droid to address another, Boba shot the droid at his back. Before long, all four droids lay on the ground, Din standing over them, breathing hard. Boba swallowed, still picturing Din above him.

Asshole, Xi’an and Burg watched from down the hallway, and Boba allowed himself to feel smug at their hesitation. Asshole strode forward, walking straight past Din.

“Make sure you clean up your mess,” he said over his shoulder.

“It seems your presence has been detected,” Zero spoke up, “redirecting security alert away from your position.”

“We’ll split up,” Asshole announced, “Burg, you take Sarlacc Food to guard the cell. We’ll go to the control room.”

Boba hated the plan immediately, but he saw Din shake his head just slightly; Boba gave him a dubious look he knew Din couldn’t see but was sure he’d understand, though he didn’t argue. No doubt Din wanted each of them to keep an eye one on half the team, but Boba hated to leave him alone with any of them. He didn’t much care _what_ the other half of the team got up to on the ship, much more concerned about leaving them alone with Din.

If this was going to be the plan, he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. He stalked down the corridor, heard Burg’s heavy footfalls following after a few moments.

“Where is this cell?” Boba barked over his shoulder. He reached a corner and leaned around it, blaster drawn as he looked for droids.

“Don’t know yet,” Burg grunted. Boba kept his back to the wall, watched Burg pace around the hallway. The minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly. Surely they could have gone _with_ the others, and split up later.

“I’m detecting an organic signature,” Zero said over the comlinks. Boba frowned. Was this a surprise to them? Did Din not know that prison ships like this always had human guards in the control rooms, Boba should have thought to tell him. Boba was positive that Asshole knew, and had chosen not to share the information. He should have seen that coming, too. Did they have a plan for the tracking beacon all human guards carried? Boba should have _told_ Din. He was a useless teammate; the one time he could have actually helped, he’d been too busy being jealous of a person from Din’s past to tell Din important information.

A couple more minutes passed, and then Asshole’s voice came over the comlink. “Cell two-two-one,” he reported, and Boba didn’t bother to check if Burg was following before he started down the corridor.

They’d split up him and Din for a reason, and Boba knew what betrayal felt like, knew that even someone as stupid as Burg wouldn’t need to be told that his job was to get rid of Boba. That wasn’t of much concern to Boba; what worried him was their plan for Din. Din was outnumbered, and they _knew_ him, had personal issues with him. That was the only dangerous kind of betrayal, as far as Boba was concerned.

He heard Burg’s footsteps closing in, and ducked before Burg could grab him; Boba was tempted to just shoot him, but answering for dead teammates wasn’t a position he wanted to put Din in. The last thing Boba wanted was to become Din’s cross to bear.

“Hey!” Burg grunted, as Boba dove past him and aimed a kick at the back of his knee.

“Let me guess, your asshole leader wants to take the kid?” Boba ducked Burg’s next lunge for him. No way they didn’t know what had happened on Nevarro. Even a ragtag group like these guys would have the same penchant for gossip about high-value jobs as all the big crime syndicates. Criminals loved that shit, in Boba’s experience.

Boba wasn’t about to waste his time with Burg. He needed to get back to Din. An alarm began blaring, which meant someone had noticed the fiascos in the prison ship corridors. Maybe meant the tracking beacon had been set off, too.

“What’re you guys doing with Din?” Boba drew his blaster, pointed it at Burg, who smirked.

“Better hurry,” he grunted, “Lotta cells for him to hide in.”

That was more than enough time wasted with Burg, and Boba took off running. Burg gave a startled sound, and hesitated before following. Shots rang out through the hallway, but Boba ignored him. What if they knocked Din out and tossed him somewhere? How would Boba ever find him in time, before the New Republic showed up, before these assholes took the kid and left them behind? They never should have gone on the ship with this fucking team. How hadn’t Boba seen this coming, but he knew – he’d never had to worry about someone else, never had to pause in escaping to find someone else. Never had anything that could scare him, and suddenly he was _so scared._

The first droid they ran into, Boba shot it from the start of the corridor and when he passed, paused to rip its arm off to access the device that would open the cell doors. How long did he have? If they knocked Din out, Boba would have to check every cell, every single one, and there wasn’t time –

Burg lumbering after him, Boba checked cell numbers and tried to figure out where cell two-two-one was. Surely they’d have gotten that far, to gain their new guy, before taking Din out. Three on one was always better than two on one. Boba was going to kill every single one of them if Din wasn’t there to stop him.

The flashing red light, the wailing siren, these things _never_ got to him, but suddenly it was making his heart race, making him frantic. It was because he couldn’t just escape, because he didn’t care if he survived but _needed_ Din to be okay. Escaping never felt like this, never felt _necessary_ like this.

They were in the next hallway. Boba was just coming around the corner when they threw Din into the cell, _hard,_ and slammed the door. They took off in the opposite direction and Boba tried to go to him – Burg was upon him, dragged him backwards and hurled him into the wall. It took a long time to get away, too long, Burg keeping a firm grasp on his upper arm so he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but try and kick at him, duck his punches –

It took too long to get away. Boba took his chance when droids rounded the corner and began shooting at them, but it had been too long. The door was open, and Din was gone. So – Din was okay, he was _okay,_ but he was gone. Boba stood motionless before it for a long moment, breathing hard. Was Din looking for him? _Had_ Din gotten himself out, or had someone else taken him away?

“Din!” He looked up and down the blank hallway, but it told him nothing, didn’t give him Din. Burg came around the corner, and Boba bolted. He didn’t have time to deal with Burg again, and when he came upon a batch of security droids, he ducked their fire and turned the corner, leaving Burg to run into them next.

Boba wasn’t finding him. He wasn’t anywhere. Cell after cell, hallway after hallway, and how much time could be left? At what point was he supposed to abandon Din to protect the child? How could he ever bring himself to do that? Except – the child, tiny and alone and – and _Din,_ trapped somewhere on a prison ship, needing Boba to find him – Boba felt nearly hysterical with fear, and it was a horrible feeling, dizzying and unsteady, simultaneously too heavy and too light. Should he go towards the exit? He’d never find Din in that direction, but he could cut them off from the child, but if he took too long, he couldn’t double back to find Din –

“ _Din?!_ Din! _”_ Boba kept calling his name, frantic, but then – Burg slammed into him from the opposite direction and Boba reeled, hitting the wall. How had someone so gigantic snuck up on him? Flanked by security droids pursuing him? There wasn’t time, there wasn’t _time_. He ducked Burg’s fist and dropped to the ground, and before he knew it, he’d shot Burg and two droids, jumped to his feet and slammed the third droid into the wall before shooting it. 

“Hey!” _Din,_ it was Din, and Boba whipped towards the sound of Din’s voice, and Din _,_ he was okay, he was alive and found and _okay._ Boba ran for him, couldn’t stop himself from grabbing onto Din’s shoulder, clutching him tight.

“I thought,” Boba could barely breathe, thought he might fall apart, “I couldn’t find you, I thought, I thought – Din, fuck, _Din –”_ He’d thought Din was lost, thought he’d never find him. Din was so calm, compared to Boba’s shaking hysterics. He tilted his head forward to touch his helmet to Boba’s. “Din,” Boba whispered, helpless at the tiny gesture. _I wasn’t a match for this,_ he wanted to apologize, _I lost you._

“I’m fine, _werlaara,”_ Din said in his deep voice. Boba nodded, let go before Din could feel how his hands were shaking at the sound. Boba almost _lost him,_ he wanted to cling to Din and never let go, collapse against his broad chest and stay there, he was almost _lost._ Legend though Boba was, he’d almost lost Din anyways, powerless to stop it.

“Okay. Okay. Shit. Let’s get those assholes, they’re not getting off this ship if I have anything to do with it.”

“Fine by me.” Din was unshaken, and Boba felt all the more hysterical beside him. He’d almost lost Din, he’d seen them throw Din into the cell, intending for him to be abandoned there, and how _dare_ they try to take Din from him?

“I saw him throw you in,” Boba blurted out. “From down the hallway, I saw it, and he attacked me so I couldn’t go to you and then you were gone–” He grabbed for Din again, couldn’t _not_ be touching him, one hand on Din’s shoulder, the other at his elbow, needing to feel that he was real, was here, was okay. “You’re fine. Din. You’re fine.”

“Mayfield figured out the kid has a bounty,” Din said, and it took Boba a moment to understand who he was talking about. Asshole knew the kid had a bounty, Boba had _known_ he would, and he was still – still out there somewhere, going for the kid. Boba made a strangled sound at the thought. “I cut him off from leaving and split up him and Xi’an, but they’re both still out there.”

Boba started down the hallway again at a run, but after their first turn, he stopped at the sound of his name being called.

“Come on, Fett!” It was Gabnit again, trying to beckon him over. “Fett! Turn me in to the Xan sisters. They’re offering a bounty.”

“Dead or alive?” Boba kept looking for Xi’an and Asshole; not that he _wanted_ to see Xi’an again, the way she looked at him like he was nothing, nothing to Din and nothing at all. He was – he was _something,_ and here was the proof of it, Gabnit from the days before. Because Boba _was_ a legend, he wasn’t just a clone, even if he’d almost failed Din, even if he hadn’t been able to find Din himself and had almost lost him –

“Wouldn’t you rather collect my bounty than let me die in a New Republic prison?”

“How much.”

“Fifty thousand credits.”

Boba exhaled to steady himself, tilted his head to look at Din for an answer. Din would know what to do. Din nodded, so Boba turned back to Gabnit.

“Makes no difference to me where you’re dealt with,” Boba took the droid’s door-opening mechanism he couldn’t even remember jamming into his pocket and opened the cell door. He borrowed Din’s handcuffs and shepherded the prisoner into the corridor. “Zingo Gabnit. Bounty hunter,” he told Din, and Din nodded.

Din followed Boba down the corridor, their new charge accompanying them; from there, Xi’an wasn’t hard to track. Her voice drifted from around the corner as she shouted into her comm, trying fruitlessly to reach Zero. She heard them approaching, flung a knife before she’d even fully turned. Din brought up his arms to deflect her knives, one after the other, and Boba darted past him, ducking a knife and diving for Xi’an. He had her in an instant, and Din opened a cell door while Boba dragged her over.

“Oh really?” she laughed loudly, “So jealous that you have to put your competition in jail? He’s not worth having, I’d know it. There’s nothing under all that armor.”

“Shows what you know,” Boba spat, as she kicked and struggled. She grabbed onto his shoulder, pulled herself up to speak to him.

“What makes you think he’d want something like you?” she hissed, and he heaved her into the cell, slammed the door. She was right, she was fucking right, and Boba couldn’t stand to think about it, but suddenly he couldn’t stop – what would Din want with something like him? Why would Din want a fucking clone? _Boba_ was the one who had nothing under the armor.

It was easy to intercept Asshole, the sound of nearby droids catching Asshole’s attention before he had the chance to notice Boba and Din.

“Can I kill him?” Boba asked quietly, as they watched Asshole jerk towards the sound of the droids, several hallways over.

“If he’s in a cell, he’ll never get to the kid,” Din said, “He doesn’t have to die.”

Din was _good._ What the hell would he want with something like Boba? Din was sparing a man who didn’t deserve it, and Boba had always wielded destruction like it was his only option.

Boba ducked around the corner so he could come up on Asshole from behind, ran the length of the next hallway, and stepped out behind him.

“Oh, look who escaped,” Asshole was saying to Din, taunting, and Boba was so fucking tired of these people going after Din, they’d tried to _take Din from him._

“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” Din said, and Boba dove forward, slamming Asshole to the ground and catching his arms behind his back. Asshole struggled but couldn’t shake Boba’s knee from his back.

“From the second I saw you,” Asshole spluttered angrily, as Boba jerked him to his feet and led him towards the nearest empty cell, “I knew you were a traitor. You’re only loyal to whoever is currently paying you. I knew we shouldn’t trust you.”

“You threw him in a cell and now you think you’re taking that kid?” Boba snarled, as Din opened the cell door, “You’re lucky this is all I’m doing to you.” He threw Asshole forward, slammed the door closed. Asshole was mistaken, if he thought he could hurt Boba by calling him a traitor. Of course Boba was a traitor, he had no one to stay loyal to. It wasn’t his fucking fault, what was he supposed to do? Be loyal to people who didn’t give a shit about him? Asshole didn’t even know that he’d already hurt Boba, by taking Din, by threatening the kid, he’d _already_ done damage.

When they were finally, finally to the exit, they found the man who must have been the prisoner they’d come for. “Qin!” Din barked, and Qin froze, turned.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a step backwards at the sight of Boba. “What the hell is this?!”

“I’m not here for you,” Boba said, raising his blaster. He was done, he was _done,_ he wanted to get out of here and never look back, he wanted Din off this ship and wanted the child safe with them. It had beaten him, left him shaking; could he have handled this, before? He’d _done_ this before, but without someone to protect back on the ship, without someone lost in the hallways who was so important, Boba would die before leaving him behind.

“Where are all the others? You killed them, didn’t you?”

“They got what they deserved,” Din replied.

“You kill me, you don’t get your money. Whatever Ran promised, I’ll make sure you get it, and more,” Qin said, “come on, Mando. Be reasonable.” He threw his blaster to the ground. “You were hired to do a job, right? So do it. Isn’t that your code? Aren’t you a man of honor?” He kept looking back at Boba nervously. “You’re the one that killed them, aren’t you?”

“Not all of us are men of honor,” Boba kept his blaster raised. “Get on the ship.” He gestured upwards with his blaster, kept it trained on Qin until he’d ascended the ladder. Boba unlocked Gabnit’s handcuffs so he could climb the ladder, and when both had vacated the corridor, Boba looked over at Din. He was still here. Boba hadn’t lost him, he wasn’t gone, and Boba thought he might finally be able to breathe. They just kept trying to _take_ Din from him.

“I knew I couldn’t trust them with you,” Boba said softly. “You’re okay, right? Din? You’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Din said, his voice so deep, and Boba ached to touch him.

Din boarded the ship first, and Boba didn’t see what happened, but suddenly, Din had shot Zero and was standing over the droid’s body on the floor.

“That how you greet your friends?” Gabnit called over, as Boba re-cuffed him. Din cupped the child’s cheek briefly, then closed the door to keep it hidden in the compartment, and rushed to the cockpit.

Once they’d taken off and were on their way back to the space station, Boba ventured up to the cockpit, leaned against the back of Din’s chair, as close as he dared let himself get.

“Baby’s okay?” Boba asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re – you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Din said. He tilted his head back, looked up at Boba, and Boba just _ached_ for him. What the fuck did he think he was doing? Din would never want something like him. Boba was just a clone, he was the one who was supposed to be special and had proved no different than all the rest. He was nothing, a legend in name alone, nothing there that was _him._ When Din reached for his hand and squeezed it gently, Boba’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’ll kill anyone who goes after you, they’re lucky a jail cell was all they got,” Boba said, voice hoarse. This was all he had to offer; he was nothing but his armor, nothing but his name. He was a clone. A legend in name alone, there was nothing redeeming, nothing profound about him. Not like Din, and what would a man with a legendary gentleness, an endless capacity for good, want with a clone?

Din was still holding his hand, and Boba thought he might fall to his knees and sob for how hopelessly, pointlessly in love he was with Din.


	11. Chapter 11

Taking Gabnit had been a bad idea, fifty thousand credits notwithstanding. Any distance Boba had gained from himself had evaporated; he was back to _this,_ the bounty hunter who would do anything he was paid to do. He’d had himself convinced that the payment motivated him, until he spent a year in the slow agony of realizing that the pay had never mattered, that he’d do anything just to prove he existed, to create a name so that when people looked at him, they would see _something._ He was lucky no one had figured that out, really, that all they’d really needed to do was dangle something flashy and sufficiently daring in front of him, and he’d do it without question. Anything that gave people something to look at when they saw him.

Was he back to doing it again? He’d looked to Din for direction because – because he _was_ trying to do it again, was trying to take on a job so that he’d feel defined by it, to find out if it would give _Din_ something to see in him, and letting Din make the decision had been a way to sneak past the realization. Here it was, though, catching up with him.

A small squeak of a hinge from the cargo hold made Boba sigh, stalk around the corner and slam shut the compartment Gabnit was trying to look into. “How about,” Boba snapped, “you just don’t touch anything.”

“I was just looking!” Gabnit protested. “Kind of a downgrade, isn’t this ship? Last I saw you, you had quite a few more bells and whistles.”

“Forgot where I parked it.” Boba returned to sit at the end of the bed, but Gabnit followed him anyways. Last time Boba had seen him, sure, he’d had the Slave IV, but it felt like a distant memory. He didn’t _want_ to see it again. It would feel like home, the closest thing he’d ever had to one, and it was to be home in a terrible time, familiar surroundings that would make him into what he’d been before. He’d rather be here, a place so unfamiliar that maybe he could be something else, a place where Din was.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re on Guild business anymore, either, unless they now condone breaking bounties out of New Republic prisons. What’s the matter, fall out with them?” Gabnit had been a Guild bounty from the brief time that Boba attempted to go through the Guild, pointless endeavor that had been. A small, embarrassing part of him had hoped it would feel like something to belong to, but they’d just looked at him like he didn’t belong there, either.

During Boba’s short stint with the Guild, Gabnit had brought in a bounty dead but the client had insisted they’d specified alive only, and the Guild had promised to take it to an appeal but failed, leaving him without credits to pay his debts; Gabnit had run afoul of the Guild ever since, and had been one of Boba’s bounties.

“Couldn’t associate with a Guild that would hire you,” Boba said. Surely they wouldn’t be able to just kick him out of the ship and never set foot on Bracca, much as Boba would have preferred that.

“Didn’t I warn you they’d fuck you like they did me?” Gabnit’s voice rose, “the Guild sided with the client, like they always do!”

“That’s your problem,” Boba said, “You think people won’t fuck you. What were you expecting? Someone to take your fucking side? No wonder you never became anything.”

It got Gabnit to finally leave him alone, which felt like a good thing until Boba realized it meant that now he had to sit in silence with nothing to distract himself. He should have just let the idiot keep talking, so he wouldn’t start thinking about the last time he’d seen Gabnit. When he brought Gabnit in, people asked if Boba would _help_ them, as if this meant he was someone they could trust, as if he knew how to do things the right way. Boba hadn’t known how to explain that just because he’d caught a criminal, it didn’t mean he was _good._ And when a man had come up to him, impressed and emboldened by Boba’s apparent redeeming bounty, Boba had let him go on believing it – that Boba was good, undangerous and approachable. Had gone with him, to the nearby mining encampment he’d come from, where Boba had tossed his armor into a pile and yanked the man down onto the thin mattress with him.

He’d always wondered, but never had the capacity to care, how people always _knew_ what to do with him. No one had ever gotten to the point of having sex with him and expected _him_ to do the fucking. He’d even gone to bed with a woman before, though he wasn’t terribly attracted to women, just because he was curious about her misunderstanding of what he wanted to do – in the end, even she had seen what he wanted from a mile away, hadn’t misunderstood at all. She’d made him come twice almost immediately and then sob harshly through a third time, with a strap-on that she could use absolutely expertly. _You deserve this,_ she’d said, and, shaking and trying to arch both into and away from the unrelenting stimulation of it, Boba hadn’t understood if it was because he was good or because he was terrible.

People always seemed to _know,_ and if he hadn’t had so much else to hate about himself he might have cared, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. So he wanted to get railed by someone with big hands who could hold him down and make him feel completely overtaken, so fucking what? Sometimes he wanted to be taken apart, held down and dismantled and treated like something desirable, to have someone else decide if right now, he deserved to get what he wanted. Sometimes, he wanted to take what he needed, to be the one breaking himself down, fuck himself on someone’s dick because he should get what he wanted at least sometimes even if he didn’t deserve it. However he got it, he always wanted the same thing.

The miner had understood that; he may have had a flawed understanding of Boba’s capacity for good, but he understood perfectly that Boba craved this, being fucked so hard and deep that he was clenching the sheet between his fingers and babbling _please, please,_ this the only time he ever got to ask anyone for something he needed. He didn’t care, if people went around afterwards telling strangers that they’d gotten to fuck Boba Fett, feared bounty hunter, telling strangers that he’d begged _harder, please, harder,_ the whole time. They’d still be afraid of him if they saw him.

Maybe just because the miner had thought Boba was the type of man who caught criminals for the good of a town, he’d complied, slowed his pace so he could take his hand from Boba’s hip and wrap it around his cock instead. His pacing hadn’t been great; he’d jerked Boba off quickly and then gone back to thrusting into him, took so long that Boba had been worked back up again, something the miner didn’t notice or help with. Boba had left his tent afterwards, an ache in his groin from the second denied orgasm and the persisting thought he was never able to shake after any of these encounters – no one ever wanted to kiss him.

Fuck, he didn’t want to be thinking about it. It was Gabnit’s fucking fault, showing up again. Boba should never have agreed to take his bounty. He’d never have remembered this otherwise, never been set to thinking about the time a town thought he was somehow a changed man. Never would have remembered the miner, who held the mistaken belief that he was good; he’d been a similar size as Din, big enough to pin Boba down onto the mattress so he couldn’t wiggle around at all.

It was where the similarities ended, though, Din – he would be gentle, Boba thought. His fingers wouldn’t leave bruises, and he would want to be gentle, would maybe even kiss Boba, would sink his dick into Boba and then give slow, gentle thrusts, crooning to him in his deep voice, smooth his big hand along Boba’s thigh to steady him, every thrust so achingly deep – Boba couldn’t think about it. There was no point to thinking about it. He was somehow both aroused and miserable, sitting on Din’s bed and thinking about how Din would never fuck him there but how gentle Din would be if he did, and what a pathetic combination that was.

It was a long flight to Bracca, once Boba had to spend it in tortured silence. By the time they arrived, he was almost terrified to leave the ship, like his old life might snatch him back if he got too close to the current of it. Din would be there, he kept having to remind himself; Din would be there, and Boba could never leave him. No matter how magnetic the pull of his old life, being the legend of Boba Fett felt nothing like being the man who Din spoke to in a soft, secret voice no one else heard. There was no legend in the galaxy as profound as that.

When they arrived, Boba pointed Gabnit towards the cargo bay and then climbed the ladder to the cockpit; the child made expectant sounds, reaching for him.

“It can’t come.” Boba crossed his arms. The thought of the child accompanying them made his heart race. The child was tiny, curious, adoring; the thought of it getting closer to Boba’s old life was unbearable.

“It came on Sorgan, so it thinks it can,” Din said, “What if it tries to follow us out?” Din didn’t know. He thought he knew the kind of people Boba had dealt with, but he didn’t know. If Boba could have convinced Din himself to stay on the ship, he would have.

“This place is different. These people know me, and they have Empire connections. They cannot know about it.” He didn’t mean to snap at Din, but heard the own sharpness in his voice and cringed. He didn’t want to _be_ like this, not with Din. He’d carved out his reputation by being hard and cruel and he couldn’t stand for Din to see him like that.

Boba turned and left the cockpit; he could still hear Din’s voice as he climbed down the ladder, murmuring to the child in comforting tones, the child whining in protest. Pointlessly, Boba tried to think of a way to convince Din to stay, too, but couldn’t come up with anything. If Din wouldn’t stay on the ship to look after the child, nothing was going to change his mind, and as much as the thought of Din wanting to look out for him warmed Boba, he desperately didn’t want Din to see him here. Revisiting the life he still wasn’t sure he’d really escaped, being seen as unchanged by people he’d known before – he hated that it would happen in front of Din.

Bracca was the same. A vast, rocky junkyard constantly under siege by rain. The dark blues of the sky and the downpour made it feel like some sort of ocean planet, wet and windy and damp. Like everywhere Boba had visited before, he hadn’t missed it.

The spaceport was somehow both bigger and more damaged, like they’d built on additions without fixing the parts that were weathering. The floor creaked beneath Boba’s boots as he led Gabnit ahead of him, handcuffed and finally silent, Din following behind Boba. Workers bolted at the sight of Boba; the last time he had been here, it had been on the heels of a bounty that had gone awry with a showy violence. Everyone even peripherally involved with the Empire had heard about it, the defecting general who had been disintegrated during his pursuit by Boba Fett himself. Once, Boba had wondered why people spread the stories about him, but he’d since learned – it was a precaution. A warning, because he was dangerous, because people had an instinct to protect others, even strangers. _Did you hear what he did,_ they would say, because it wasn’t enough to tell people to watch out for him, the message was stronger with proof.

Had the general been on Bracca, when Boba almost captured him? Maybe it wasn’t just right after that bounty, maybe it was _during._ He couldn’t remember, though it had been only three or four years ago. Maybe that was why the workers were so terrified of him, if some of them had watched it unfold right in front of them. Boba was so tired of following the ghost of himself, but it was his own fault. It was _him,_ who had traumatized these people, and he felt guilty, he always felt guilty, but what good did that do anyone? Did Din notice, that the workers were hiding from him? Probably. Boba’s stomach turned at the thought.

Boba led them to the high-speed train that transported supplies from the spaceport to the scrapyards; there were a few workers already on the windowless car, and he saw the way they paled at the sight of him. He turned his back, pointed Gabnit to the corner of the train and watched Din follow, Din leaning against the wall of the car, looking first from the door to the group of workers. He didn’t say anything, and Boba didn’t even know if Din was looking at him; now that he’d had the thought once, it wouldn’t leave him – he didn’t know Din’s face. What did he _look_ like? How could it matter even as it so deeply didn’t? Boba ached to know him that intimately, but even if he never knew, he was already lost, already felt a helpless longing for Din that had dragged him under. Boba loved him for everything else already, and knowing the exact shade of his eyes or the shape of his nose wouldn’t do anything but strip Boba of the last defenses he had.

They passed several scrapyards, until the train stopped at Yard D9. As they disembarked the train and stepped onto the platform, Boba saw Din studying their surroundings, head turned so he could study the starships flanking the building. Bracca was a hub of ship repair frequented by the Empire, where dead and dying ships were sent to be rebuilt, remade and forced into service for the Empire. The scrapyard was noisy, the air filled with metaling clangs, the sounds of welding torches and drills, the constant pounding of the rain, but it was shrouded in an outer silence that had always seemed far more ominous, to Boba. Outside, cranes lifted wings through the air in silence, huge, hulking objects drifting past the windows, workers aboard the ships faraway that their voices couldn’t be heard, the silence of the rain out where it had nothing to fall against.

Boba led them deeper into the heart of the scrapyard, where the workers continued to scatter at the sight of him, melting into the background.

“Here we are,” Gabnit said to the familiar surroundings; as though Boba needed some kind of indication that they were on the right path. Everywhere he revisited, a map would unfold that led him back to the place he’d been before, drawn forward by bursts of memories that told him exactly where he’d set foot before.

This place was no different. The steep stairs, where his footsteps had echoed in the empty stairwell, because he’d come alone. Past a bay where a scrapper had gone completely pale at the sight of him, down the corridor where Boba could remember the sharpest sense of guilt blooming in his chest, right up to the door to the stairs, where he’d stood and swallowed back the feeling of familiar dread, at having to continue through his life when he was so tired of things like this – meetings where every voice was emotionless, people who looked at him and always saw the same thing, the way they’d greet him by name and he still wouldn’t feel seen. The churning in his stomach told him they were following the same path before he even tried to remember the way he’d taken.

The guard they passed took a step back at the sight of Boba, but it was unclear if he was the same guard as last time, or had just been warned. Surely Din was noticing this now, that he’d chosen to follow a man that every single person in the galaxy had heard something terrible about. How could Din want Boba to stay? Din moved through his life with a peaceful anonymity, seemed so self-assured that he didn’t need anyone to know his face or his name. How could he _want_ to attach himself to Boba, who carried a riotous desperation to be known, for everyone to have heard his name because he was nothing without it.

The Xan sisters were in a back room, nearly the entire small room taken up by a holotable that hadn’t been there the last time Boba had stood here. The image of a massive transport ship floated in the blue lights of the table and Acina leaned forward with her elbows on the table, studying the ship as it turned before her, Kartessa hovering behind her. The sisters were Mirialans, both with pale green skin, though only Acina had the traditional facial tattoos. Boba had always preferred dealing with Acina, though she was the more formidable of the pair. Acina was cold and cruel and seemed like she’d genuinely achieved the detachment Boba had always craved, always faked.

“Look who it is,” Acina watched them enter without moving a muscle. “Come all the way back from the dead just for our bounty?” Had she cared, when she’d heard he was dead? The unimpressed look on her face told him that she had not. There were plenty of people that Boba had worked with before, who would have heard the rumors, and he was sure that none of them, not a single one, had _cared._

Would his father have, if he were still alive? It wasn’t like he couldn’t pick a different clone to be his son. Boba had always been on his best behavior, on the days his father had visited the cloning facility, terrified that if he acted out, he’d be replaced – if he died, his father could have just selected another, could have started over entirely. It was an unwelcome thought, and Boba didn’t even know where it had _come_ from. Surely he hadn’t been this unstable last time he’d been here, making himself miserable with pointless ruminations on his father, who wasn’t even alive to replace Boba in the event of his early death.

“Seems oddly high for him,” Boba said, though it was a pointless thing to say. They were going to make Gabnit pay his own reward, and Boba felt stupid for making it seem like he hadn’t figured that out. Kartessa circled the table to peer at him, and then Din; Boba tensed as soon as her gaze slid over to Din.

“Who might you be? Another of the Empire’s favorites?”

“Kartessa, Acina,” Gabnit nodded to each sister, clearly trying to sidle his way back into their good graces, and for once, Boba was grateful to hear him talk. Anything to get the sisters to stop looking at Din. _He’s not like us,_ Boba wanted to tell them, _he’s incorruptible._ “I appreciate you paying to have me freed from the New Republic.”

“You’ll be paying us back,” Acina replied, and Kartessa smiled humorlessly in agreement. 

“We didn’t think you’d stand up to their questioning.” Kartessa waved a hand towards the door to dismiss him. “You can go. Wel has a job for you. Bay eight.” Din stepped forward to unhandcuff Gabnit, and Gabnit left the room. The sisters waited until his footsteps had fully faded to speak again. Wherever he sat in their ranks, it couldn’t have been terribly high.

“I didn’t think anyone would pick up his bounty,” Acina straightened slightly, leaned her hip against the table. She kept her distance as she always did. “I thought we’d have to have him killed in custody.” She said it matter-of-factly, and Boba bit his lip, hated that Din was hearing this, that he was associated with people like this – discussing having a man killed so emotionlessly, that this was something Boba had agreed to countless times with barely a second thought. “What an odd coincidence that you came across him.”

“Maybe I should charge a convenience fee.” Boba crossed his arms, though he hated the impulse to hide, the prickling self-consciousness that raised its head. “We all know he’s useless. How is he possibly worth fifty thousand credits?”

“I’d have paid a hundred,” Acina shrugged, purposefully misunderstanding, though Boba hadn’t really expected she’d tell him what Gabnit had been working on. “He’s the one who’ll be paying it off. Easier to have him returned alive than pay to have him killed.” So she’d have paid to have him killed, despite being unable to collect the credits from Gabnit if she did so; he must have been working on something semi-important, then. Not enough that she’d have him killed pre-emptively, but enough that she’d been considering it.

“Pretty low bounty for you to pick up,” Kartessa added. Boba bit back a snarl, though he couldn’t _blame_ her, for thinking he was still operating on the same principles. Of course she’d look at him and think he was the same. Of course. “Still have your in with the Empire? You’d have been quite useful, back in your heyday. Returned to your former glory yet?”

Even during his first encounter with the sisters, it had been easy to see that Kartessa thirsted for recognition within the Empire. She was unsatisfied with their peripheral operation and wanted the prestige a position with the Empire would afford her. Clearly, she hadn’t changed, so of course she thought he wouldn’t have, either.

“Depends if they can still pay. I could always go back, if the price is right.” He forced the words out. No use having her know that the Empire would have him killed on sight. She’d be much too eager, to bring them his body. All the same, the words made something in his chest seize up painfully, at the thought of ever going back. Din had to know he was just saying this, didn’t _mean_ it, right?

“How lucky for us, that we caught you in between jobs.” Kartessa’s voice was cool, but predictably, a flash of interest had crossed her face first. Acina looked entirely unimpressed as usual. 

“I may have another item of interest to you,” Acina said, “A ship.”

“Don’t need one.” He hoped he didn’t, anyways. Would Din let him stay, after seeing this? Boba ached to turn back and look at him, to hear his voice even for a moment in the midst of all this. Din had been silent since they’d left the Crest, and Boba could almost feel like he was here alone, that he’d hallucinated this man who was gentle and kind to him, and had fallen back into his old life. The thought made a panic suddenly rise up in his chest, clawing and thrashing.

“Be that as it may, I have the Slave IV,” Acina said. Boba clenched his teeth, said nothing. The thought of his ship being here – like at any moment, he could be back in his old life again, like seeing it would suddenly transport him back and Din would vanish, never someone Boba had found at all. “Perhaps you’d like to trade the bounty for it? We’ve nearly finished its repairs.”

“Fully restored,” Kartessa added, “Exactly as she was the day you lost her.”

The day he’d lost the ship – Boba hoped they couldn’t tell, that his breathing had quickened in response to the anxiety coursing through him. Before he’d fallen into the Sarlacc pit, before he’d clawed his way back out, before he’d ever known Din was out there and willing to be so gentle towards him, when the galaxy was vast in its capacity to hurt him and there was no one, no one, _no one,_ who cared if he died. He’d been so desperate, that day, aching for the shred of recognition Solo’s bounty would give him, chased by the familiar dread that it wouldn’t be enough, because it never was. The end of a bounty hunt was the worst part, because at the end of the day, he would be the same – still a clone, still nothing, still hurt every time someone said his name and he heard only the emptiness behind it. His name stood alone in the air, no meaning behind it, and Boba never heard that as loudly as when a bounty failed to make him feel like anything.

“No. I don’t need a ship.”

“Not even this ship?” Kartessa asked. “ _Your_ ship?”

Boba shook his head. Mercifully, Acina accepted his answer, just tossed him the coin purse heavy with credits and gave him a dismissing nod.

“We have matters to attend to.”

“Pleasure doing business.” Boba tilted his head to Din to beckon him to follow, and he was flooded with relief when Din actually followed; for a moment, he hadn’t known if Din still would.

Neither of them spoke until they’d gone up three flights of stairs. Knowing his ship was somewhere in the shipyard made Boba’s heart twist painfully. He didn’t want to be this close to a relic from his past life, wanted all traces of it wiped away. If he couldn’t touch any piece of it, he couldn’t go back. Even his armor had begun to kick up a tiny sense of dread in him, when he put it back on.

“You didn’t want your ship back,” Din said after a while; Boba shook his head.

“Doesn’t feel like mine anymore.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, though. More like he was desperate to hold onto his exile from his previous life, and if he had it back – would he become the same, again? He didn’t _want_ it to feel like his own.

Boba scanned the bays they passed, almost afraid to see the Slave IV waiting for him. They passed smaller crafts, light freighters, a massive transport-class ship. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to see it, he just – just wanted to make sure it was here. Not waiting for him back at the spaceport, where he’d be expected to get back onto it. He didn’t want it to feel like – like the sorry excuse for a home that it had been. Didn’t want it to feel familiar.

Din stopped, and Boba followed his gaze to one of the bays. He had to stop himself from reaching to touch Din, just to promise himself that Din was still here, even if Boba was looking at his old ship like he was living in a day long passed.

“There it is,” Boba managed. “Slave IV. Same class as Jaster’s Legacy. My father’s ship,” he told Din. He’d clung to that, the things his father had left him, though it was more from a helpless desire to understand his father than anything else. Boba had loved him, but – but with a hesitation, even when he was young. He’d been constantly terrified that he would do something that would make his father stop loving him, that he would be whatever the clones were, whatever it was that made them meaningless to his father. Boba looked just like them, he was _just like them,_ and his childhood had been an anxious tangle of waiting to accidentally reveal that he was just like the clones, and have his father send him away because of it. When he’d died, taking with him the answer as to why Boba was his son and not among the clones – Boba had clung desperately to anything that made him feel closer to Jango, hoping for some kind of answer to be revealed to him. _This is why you’re not just a clone,_ he’d been waiting to hear, and never, never had.

“Jaster’s Legacy?” Din echoed, his voice faraway to Boba. Din treating him kindly – it wasn’t because Din had any kind of answer for him. He just didn’t know that Boba was a clone.

It didn’t feel like home, when Boba looked at it. He would have thought he’d be relieved, that he didn’t feel like he fit here, but – but he just felt unmoored, set adrift, like everything he’d done before wasn’t his anymore and with it went any semblance of identity that he’d tried so hard to scrape together. This wasn’t his ship, anymore. Nothing was his.

“I thought it might feel like home,” Boba said softly, “I thought I’d be relieved it if didn’t.”

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, and the Mando’a was just another place where Boba didn’t belong. He said something else after it, and how could something be both comforting and alienating? Boba couldn’t understand what he was saying, because he wasn’t a Mandalorian, because that wasn’t what made him different than the clones, but Din’s voice was so soft and warm. Boba kept looking at the ship for a few long moments, this place that wasn’t meant for him either.

“Let’s get back to the kid,” he said. At least this, they could share, their desire to protect this child who needed them.

The train ride back to the spaceport passed in silence. Boba leaned his shoulder against the wall, trying to stop thinking about being back on the Slave IV. He’d been so _lonely,_ the ship always so quiet and empty. In between jobs, everything had felt so pointless – he’d known, even then, that there was no bounty big enough, no job dangerous enough, to grant him an identity.

The doors slid open to the spaceport, and Boba started across the platform, Din following.

“She knows,” Din blurted out suddenly, and he grabbed Boba by the elbow; Boba could only look at him, hyper-focused on Din’s hand on him. “She knows about the kid.”

“What?” That short-circuited his thoughts away from Din. How – how? They knew about the child? They couldn’t, they were from – from _before,_ and that couldn’t reach the child – “How could she? Din,” Boba managed to choke out, and when he took off at a run towards the Crest, Din was right behind him.

Nothing was wrong from the outside. The ship appeared untouched, and as they sprinted for the ramp that lowered too-slowly at Din’s prompting, Boba was sure they were too late. He’d gotten the child killed. He’d taken them too near to his old life, and _why?_ Because a bounty had shown up and he’d been desperate to feel like someone again? It hadn’t been about the money, it was never about the money, it was his stupid, selfish desire to feel like something other than a clone, and now, he’d gotten their child killed.

Kartessa was there. The sight of her was at first terrifying, and then, once Boba took it all in, he breathed a sigh of relief. The child stood in the middle of the floor, small hands outstretched, using the Force to choke Kartessa as she knelt on the ground, hands scrabbling uselessly at her throat. Even though it was Kartessa and he was glad to see her subdued, the sight still made Boba breathe a little more shallowly, remembering too clearly being choked just like this. He’d been so young, had _trusted_ her, and Ventress had been trying to do the right thing and Boba had felt like – like a force that needed to be stopped, like an obstacle to what was right, and she’d hurt him without even touching him. Had bound his hands and shoved him into a trunk, and he couldn’t even _cry,_ didn’t know when the lid would be opened and he’d be seen, had held back the urge to sob and waited for the rescue that wouldn’t feel like one at all.

“Let her go,” Boba told the child, held out his hand for Din’s handcuffs. He could practically feel the invisible crush around his throat, resisted the urge to touch his neck and make sure it wasn’t really happening. Din gave the handcuffs to him, and Boba yanked Kartessa’s hands behind her back, cuffed her as the child released her from its invisible hold. Din stepped around Kartessa and scooped the child into his arms. Boba drew his blaster and pointed it at Kartessa, knew he should figure out what to do with her but couldn’t stop feeling the tightness in his throat, couldn’t think past it. He hadn’t been scared, not even when he was locked in a trunk so Ventress could take the woman they’d been supposed to deliver to a captor and bring her somewhere safe instead. He’d just been _hurt_ , that no one had ever come for him, that he was still waiting to find the safe place that would take him away from his whole life.

“You knew he’d already gone back to the Empire,” Din said, looking down at Kartessa. “Didn’t you?”

Kartessa narrowed her eyes at Din, and then turned to Boba, looked up at him with fear in her eyes. Was she afraid he’d kill her? Probably.

“Tell me,” Boba snarled, “What do you want with it?”

“The same thing as you,” she said, “you think I want to be stuck on this junk planet for the rest of my life? I’ll pay double its bounty if you give it to me.”

“The Empire is dying. There’re no boots left to lick there,” Boba spat, and Kartessa laughed, a sharp, smug sound.

“Wonder how they’ll stock the troop transport ships I keep selling them,” she said, as though she was menacing him with this piece of information. Boba couldn’t bring himself to care. So the Empire was ramping back up, did it _matter?_ There would always be an Empire, there would always be a Resistance, they’d keep reinventing themselves under new names and new leadership, and Boba would forever be unwanted by both sides. “I’ll pay triple. Just let me turn it in.”

Din shot her. Boba flinched back, stared at Din in shock. It was the kind of move Boba would pull, not _Din_ , never Din. What had he _done_ to Din?

“She wasn’t ever going to stop,” Din said, and his voice was desperate, pleading. Despite everything, Boba was somehow comforted by it – he hadn’t corrupted Din, hadn’t ruined him. Din wasn’t turning into him – Din _couldn’t,_ there was so much _to_ him. So much compassion and gentleness and care for others, he could never dissolve into the nothingness that Boba was. He hadn’t killed her for convenience, it was clear, in the desperation in his voice and the protective way he held the child to his chest, Din had killed her because he was afraid she would hurt the child. “She was going to keep coming after it. There’s something – something bigger than this going on.”

There was _always_ something bigger going on, but Din sounded like he was just realizing it for the first time, and Boba’s heart ached with an apologetic sympathy for him. This was his fault. Din shouldn’t have ever had to face this, the knowledge that the galaxy was filled with terrible things, that there was always something worse on the horizon.

“Hey,” Boba ventured, approached him hesitantly. The idea that he could do anything to make Din feel less afraid was laughable, when Boba was the one who had dragged him into this, but he had to try. “Din.” He tilted his helmet to Din’s, afraid to touch him in any other way.

“How can you take this?” Din asked, and the child whimpered in agreement. Boba didn’t know how to possibly answer him. This – this was what Boba did. This was the way the galaxy worked. “Everyone knows what you’ve done. Everyone is coming after you.”

“That’s the way it’s always been,” Boba said, because how could he explain it? Everyone knew what he’d done, because he _needed_ them to, because if he wasn’t the things he’d done, he was just a clone. It was the inescapable foundation of him. All he had was his name, whatever that meant. He was the one who’d been given a name, and in doing so, he’d been defined as the clone set apart, alone by definition. The only clone given a name. “When the whole galaxy knows your name, there’s nowhere to hide.”

How could Din manage to look so rattled, even when Boba couldn’t see his face? Maybe Boba hadn’t ruined him by corruption, but had done it in another, worse way, had shown Din how even a seemingly meaningless bounty could start a cascade of events that would threaten him. Boba had never had anything to lose and had been taught to expect betrayal from the very beginning, but Din was maybe – maybe scared by it, and it was Boba’s fault.

“Come on,” Boba said softly, and he was torn between reaching for Din and keeping his distance, because this was his own fault, and he didn’t want Din to flinch away from him. “Let’s get out of here, even if it’s just to stay in orbit. The cradle’s up in the cockpit, you can put him to bed.”

Din nodded along mutely, and he followed Boba up the ladder, sank down into the passenger seat with the child still in his arms. Boba took the other seat and started firing up the engines, ignoring the prompt for a flight plan and just taking the ship out of the spaceport, up into orbit. He had no idea where they were going, but at the very least, Gabnit’s bounty meant that even if they wanted to waste fuel in orbit for a solid week, it wouldn’t pose a problem.

Once he had the ship floating in orbit, Boba removed his helmet, turned to watch Din still leaned over the cradle. The child was swaddled in blankets, and Din was rocking the cradle gently, just two fingers curled around the edge of it.

“Everything okay?” Boba asked softly, wished he could be more direct, ask Din _did this hurt you._ Din didn’t look up.

“I think it’s fine. Didn’t even seem upset,” he answered, interpreting Boba’s question as being about the child, as Boba had known he would. Boba ran his fingers over the dent in his helmet, tracing the shape of it. He had nothing to say that would comfort Din. No insight about surviving his own life unscathed. _Everyone will know your name and hate it because they know what it means,_ he couldn’t tell Din, because Din wouldn’t find that comforting. Din was a Mandalorian, they didn’t _need_ to share their names; knowing that everyone would attach his name to his own actions wouldn’t be a good thing, not to him. Din wasn’t a clone.

“No one would know who you were,” Boba said, the words hard to form, “If you left. You’d be safer.”

“I wouldn’t be with you,” Din said, still didn’t look up. Boba wasn’t sure if he meant this as a reason not to leave, or a realization of why Boba was right. At Boba’s silence, Din glanced up, looked at him for a long moment, and he said something in Mando’a, the words with a gentle, inward-curling hesitation to them, a shy sort of softness. It felt like maybe, he was saying he wouldn’t leave. Boba didn’t know, could only go by the softness of Din’s low voice, by the fact that he was still here, that he’d come back for Boba on Tatooine when they were apart and Din could have been free of him.

“You should get some sleep,” Boba said, “I’ll stay here with the little one.”

“You can’t sleep in a chair,” Din said, although it wasn’t like there were many other options available. Boba wasn’t about to steal Din’s bed from him again, or force him to share it; last time, he’d woken up to find Din already gone. Maybe he was uncomfortable sharing a bed with Boba, either because it was too intimate or because it was just too small, Boba didn’t know, didn’t want to know. Besides, if Boba wasn’t there, Din could take off his helmet and actually sleep, and the guilt of knowing he was preventing that was more than Boba could take, after everything else he’d done today.

“It’s your bed. I’ll be fine, I used to do this a lot.” He’d been younger then, but no less ruined by the lonely emptiness of a bed he always slept in alone. When he was very young, not even twenty yet, he’d been unable to sleep anywhere else than the cockpit. He’d fallen into a habit of only retreating to his bed to sulk and sniffle through whatever had last wounded him, and had begun associating his bed with the wrenching loneliness he always felt there. Conditioning himself out of it had been a months-long process where the lonely feeling followed him everywhere instead of being restricted to the bed.

“If you’re sure,” Din said, but he lingered a minute or two longer before he left. Boba listened, and several minutes later, heard the sound of armor being placed onto a shelf. Would he ever see Din without his helmet? Probably not, but he also couldn’t figure out why Din would want to keep someone around like that; on Tatooine, he’d spoken like he intended to stay with Boba, but how could that be something he wanted? To always have this awkward dance around taking his helmet off in front of Boba? Boba had never even heard Din’s voice without it being filtered through the helmet, but maybe that was for the best; he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart, hearing Din’s real voice or being touched by his bare hands.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to come hang out on tumblr! where right now, i'm mostly yelling about how i just got to 100 pages on a modern!au boba/din fic where they're lawyers and boba is The Softest Thing Ever, Of All Time. (icehot13 on tumblr!)

Boba wasn’t alone, in his dream. He was lost in a facility with sterile walls and sand for floors and there was no one around him, but he wasn’t alone. Someone was out there; his aimless, frantic wandering had become a search for someone he _knew_ was there. Boba didn’t know what he looked like, but felt somehow that he’d know, would find him and just _know_ it was him. He’d feel like home, even if Boba had never seen his face, and he was out there somewhere.

Something woke him up, and when Boba looked over, he wasn’t surprised to see Din; he must have known Din was there, somehow, and Boba felt his face heating slightly at the realization. He sat up in the chair, yawning. Why had Din come back up? He was just – sitting in the other seat, and there was an unsettledness to him. Maybe he hadn’t been able to sleep.

“Too lonely down there?” Boba asked without really meaning to; it felt too much like prying, and he looked away. “It got to the point where I could only sleep in hyperspace,” he offered. “Otherwise, I’d keep waking up, positive someone was about to catch up to me. I know I brought it on myself, although when I was younger, I felt so justified.” He sighed, tilted his head back so he could see Din. “This feels different, you know. We’re doing the right thing.”

“I don’t really know _how_ to do it,” Din said, quiet. “At least this time it’s obvious it’s the right thing. There were other times I thought I was doing the right thing for myself, and it really wasn’t.”

“Was –” Boba started, trailed off. He just – wondered. Wondered about the way Din had been when he was younger, when he’d met Ran’s crew, and Xi’an. Din seemed like he’d been – been lost, maybe, although in a different way than Boba. Looking for himself, uncovering things about himself. “Was that why you stayed with Ran’s crew?” 

“Yeah. I wanted to feel part of something where people really knew me.”

“Did she?” Boba asked, meant to say _they,_ but he was only thinking about Xi’an anyways, how she’d claimed to know Din in a way he never could.

“I wasn’t ready for it, so she knew what I was able to share. It wasn’t much.”

“Din,” Boba exhaled. As much as he hadn’t wanted her to know Din – somehow, this was worse. Knowing that Din had felt alone, that he’d wanted to feel known and hadn’t been, that was worse. Boba would have rather already lost him to someone else, if it meant Din could have been saved from years and years of loneliness.

“She didn’t know my name,” Din said, and selfishly, Boba felt a surge of pride at that. _He_ knew Din’s name. “She knew I wanted to feel like a Mandalorian, because that was the only thing I wanted, back then. It probably seemed like a hollow thing to want.”

“It’s not,” Boba said. Wanting to be a Mandalorian – he understood that. Had worn his father’s Mandalorian armor and wanted to belong to the place it had come from.

“I wasn’t born a Mandalorian. Maybe if I was, I’d have an easier time understanding what it means, how to be an individual when I don’t have a name or a face or a past, not to them. It’s freeing, but it’s also taking those things away, and it’s hard to – to feel important. To know who I am, without it.”

“You are,” Boba said. He couldn’t look at Din, sure Din would be able to read everything on his face too easily. The thought of Din wanting to have his own identity, as though he wasn’t the most remarkable person in the galaxy, as though his gentleness wasn’t legendary and his kindness wasn’t profound, was heartbreaking. Boba fidgeted with his sleeve, tried to come up with a way to tell Din that of course, of course he was an individual. He was important, was world-changing. Boba had dreamed about finding him, had felt so deeply that he would know Din on sight despite never having seen his face. “You’re important to the kid, you changed the course its life was going to take. And – I’d recognize you,” Boba said, quiet. “I’d know you without any of those things, just by how it feels to be around you. And the kid would for sure,” he added, quickly, before he could say too much. “You could let him go in the covert, and he’d come right to you.” The same went for Boba, and he was afraid it was written all over his face, a blatant _I’d know you because I love you._

“How are we supposed to keep it safe?” Din asked, and when Boba glanced over at him, he was looking down into the cradle again, where the child slept deeply. “I almost left it on Sorgan, to be raised there. I just – I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let someone that wasn’t _us_ take care of it. We were the ones who came for it, and – the people who come for you, they always feel the safest. I didn’t want it to lose that.” _Us,_ he said, like Boba could stay with him, like Boba belonged with him. He didn’t know what it was like, to have someone like that come for him, but he wanted desperately to _be_ that for the child.

The child moved in its sleep, but not like it was having nightmares; it nuzzled into its blankets, tiny snores muffled. Din reached in to tuck the blankets away from its face. “Like when the Mandalorian from Death Watch saved me. Of all the ones who were there, he always felt the safest to me.”

“Death Watch, huh,” Boba repeated. He pushed himself up, sat sideways in the chair so he could look back at Din fully; he just couldn’t shake it, the thought of Din feeling like he wasn’t – wasn’t _enough,_ somehow. Wanting to feel understood. Boba wished it could matter, that he loved Din, that it would make Din feel seen in the right way. How had Din ever doubted that he was an individual, even if no one knew his name or his face? He’d responded to loss by becoming like the Mandalorian that saved him, and it said everything about him. “They killed my father’s family, and Jaster. And then they saved you, and raised you.”

“Yes,” Din said, but he sounded almost nervous, now. “They didn’t make me into someone who could do that.” Boba shook his head, leaned over the cradle to check on the child. Din had saved it, just like he’d been saved, an experience that seemed to have shaped him, made him gentle and made him kind; Boba tried to imagine what it would have felt like, to be lifted out of the wreckage of his life.

“You became just like the Mandalorian that saved you,” Boba said softly. He loved Din _so much,_ and it was to almost feel saved, to almost feel like he’d escaped and found something that didn’t hurt. He would never be Din’s, but maybe this was enough. “You sound tired, maybe you should try sleeping again.” Boba stood, about to offer to bring the cradle downstairs, that maybe the baby’s company would help.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Din said, and Boba’s heart might have skipped a beat. He wasn’t about to point out that he hadn’t been offering to join Din in his bed and just went along with it, brought the cradle downstairs and stayed there, too.

Boba set the cradle to float just outside the bed compartment as Din climbed back onto his bed, lay on his back and pulled the blanket aside for Boba. Boba followed, lay down beside Din, heart hammering against his chest and a whimper welling up when Din tucked the blanket over him, hand brushing Boba’s shoulder. Din was so _close,_ and even though it had happened before, it was as if Boba’s body had forgotten all over again what it was like to be this close to him, pulse racing and arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach. Boba turned onto his side, tried to breathe evenly.

“You had problems sleeping?” Din asked, his voice soft in the dark. Boba nodded, then realized Din couldn’t see him.

“It was worse when I was younger, but never really went away. I used to sleep in the cockpit all the time because it was better than being alone in bed. I don’t know why it was different, I was still _alone,_ but if I was in bed I just… felt it more.”

“Yeah,” Din mumbled, and the slight shyness was back, only showed up occasionally but when it did, Boba felt a surge of affection for him that was almost unendurable. Boba didn’t really know how to handle it, and he wished he really did share Mando’a with Din, that he had a way to reach out for him that would feel comforting, remind Din that he wasn’t alone. Boba didn’t have any way to do that, didn’t know if he was even _capable_ of it, of mattering to Din that way.

The thought kept him quiet, and he closed his eyes again; maybe he’d still be able to tell, even in his sleep, that Din was here. Even in the dark, Boba couldn’t stop being aware of him, of the sound of him breathing and every time movement he made beneath their shared blanket, the warmth that radiated from his body beside Boba’s.

Boba had only been asleep for a little while when he was woken back up, Din flinching awake beside him with a panicky little sound. Boba reached for him automatically, fingers bumping into Din’s arm in the dark. He pet his fingertips along Din’s arm lightly, wished he could do more, that he could pull Din into his arms and hold him, at the very least.

“It’s okay,” Boba murmured into the pillow, and he heard Din’s sleepy sigh in response. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Boba fell back asleep feeling comforted; he’d made Din feel less alone, maybe, and maybe in Din’s dreams, he wasn’t alone anymore either.

In the morning, Boba woke to a confusing, blissful haze he didn’t try to understand, at first. He was warm and he wasn’t alone; Din was so much closer to him now, and one arm was slid across Boba’s lower back; Boba’s exhale was a contented sigh, and he nuzzled into his pillow, reveling in the weight of Din’s arm on him, the curl of his fingers around Boba’s hip. It was intoxicating, and his conscious mind lagged far behind the rest of him, his body responding happily to the feel of Din sprawled beside him. Boba’s hips pushed into the mattress lazily, dick already hard, arousal trickling down his spine. It was _good,_ so good, the best thing he’d ever felt and he couldn’t stop, relaxed and needy in an unhurried way, where he could just get lost in the slow roll of his hips, the perfect amount of friction. 

Beside him, Din mumbled in his sleep and shifted; it shook Boba the rest of the way awake. He froze, barely suppressed the instinct to pull away in embarrassment. He really couldn’t be doing this, it was _Din,_ who had brought him into bed just so they wouldn’t feel so alone and not for anything like this. Boba swallowed, and slowly, slowly turned so his back was to Din; Din’s hand tightened on his hip, and the brush of his fingertips on Boba’s thigh made Boba’s dick twitch. Heat rose up the back of his neck, and he hoped that if he just – just stayed still, Din would wake up and leave the bed, and then this could all just go away. Din didn’t have to know how pathetic he was, everything was _fine._ Fuck, but Boba wanted Din to touch him, and it was so hard not to _think_ about it, when Din was right beside him, his hand _already on_ Boba.

It felt like hours, but could only have been a couple minutes before Din stirred; his hand slid off Boba’s hip, and he shifted around a little before sitting up. Boba kept his eyes closed, listening as Din slid off the bed and moved away; he even paused to press the button that slid the door to the bed compartment closed. Eventually, Boba heard him climbing the ladder up to the cockpit. So – there was one problem handled. Boba rubbed his hands over his face, groaning; it was ridiculous, that he was so – so affected, by Din. Din had barely even touched him.

It wasn’t the sensible thing to do, but Boba slid a hand downward, brushed his fingertips over his erection. He should just ignore it, try and think about something else, but instead, instead he was thinking about Din’s hands on him, about how Din could have pressed up closer behind him, touched him everywhere. Could have slid his hand down to cup Boba’s dick as he rubbed his erection against Boba’s ass, deep voice growling against Boba’s ear –

Boba listened, but couldn’t hear any sign that Din was nearby; still, he tried to be discrete, wrapped a hand around himself and bit his lip to keep quiet. He felt overly sensitive, after going so long without being touched, hips moving in helpless little jerks. It was too easy to picture, after Din had been that close to him, how easily he could have climbed between Boba’s legs and pressed Boba into the mattress so he didn’t even have the space to rut against the bed anymore, could have fucked him slowly and gently, his voice a gentle rumble against Boba’s ear, one big hand on Boba’s hip to keep him in place. Boba stifled a moan and came in his hand to the thought of Din growling his name. 

By the time Boba joined Din in the cockpit, he’d almost convinced himself it was a good idea, that all he’d done was release the tension he’d been feeling, and that thinking about Din while jerking off wasn’t the terrible idea it had seemed to be. The notion proved itself ridiculous, as soon as he saw Din; all it had done was make it even more obvious to Boba, how much he _wanted_ Din. He thought he might be blushing, as he stepped closer.

At least Din didn’t seem to notice; he was focused on a holo-message that flickered above the panelboard. He was back in his armor, and Boba suddenly missed the unmasked shape of his shoulders, his arms.

“Look at this. From Karga,” Din said, sounding displeased. Boba dared to get closer, leaned his hip against the chair and debated for a moment before tentatively setting his hand on Din’s shoulder. That was something normal, right? He just wanted to touch Din so badly he felt guilty about it.

“My friend,” the holo-message began, and Boba snorted when he recognized the man who was the head of the Guild, who Boba had shot. Apparently not well enough. “If you are receiving this transmission that means Fett didn’t kill you. You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive, too.”

“Am I a bad shot?” Boba asked, affronted. How was this man _alive?_ Alive, and assuming Boba would have _ever_ hurt Din? 

“A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild. We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out. If you would consider one last commission I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, and I am heartened by the news that you were able to take the child from Fett. If you were able to kill him, I’m sure your praise will be heard around the galaxy.”

“Sure,” Boba muttered under his breath, though the thought of people assuming Din had killed him was more painful than he’d have expected. No one could see that Boba meant anything to him, no one could imagine that he ever would. “They can throw a joint parade for you and the Sarlacc.”

“They will not stop until they have their prize, and I understand that you cannot bring in the child yourself safely after what happened. So here is my proposition: return to Nevarro, bring the Child as bait. I will arrange an exchange and provide loyal Guild members as protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism.” So he wanted to steal the child from them. The transparency of his plan was almost insulting.

Din turned off the hologram, looked up at Boba. Boba feigned nonchalance, drumming his fingers against Din’s shoulder pauldron, as though suddenly being the focus of Din’s attention wasn’t making his heart race a tiny bit.

“It’s a setup,” Boba said, shaking his head. “We could still get what we want, but it’d be by working against him, not with him. We’d have to know exactly when to pull out of his plan.”

“I guess it’s this, or just… stay on the run forever with the kid,” Din said, his voice faint. He sounded panicked again, and Boba’s heart lurched at the sound of it.

“Hey,” Boba sank to his knees, and extended a hand to touch Din’s wrist. It was so comforting, so grounding, when Din touched him, maybe his touch could somehow help comfort Din. Din didn’t have to be afraid of anything this man could do to him, or threaten to take from him. Din didn’t have to worry about anything in the galaxy coming for him. Boba may have been nothing besides his name, but that came with all the things he’d done, everything he was capable of. He’d been a legend; he could protect the man he loved. “We can take Karga. I don’t care what he’s got planned, and it doesn’t matter. We’ll go in, kill the Client, get you cleared with the Guild, and keep the kid.”

“Karga could be working for them. We don’t know whose trap this is.” Din always sounded like this when he was worried, his voice faraway, strained.

“I don’t care whose it is,” Boba insisted, “Neither of them stands a chance.”

“You’re right.” Din exhaled slowly. “Okay. We’re going to need more people, at least to keep the kid safe. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to have people on our side. I’ll send Karga a message soon, once we do that, and then we’ll go to Nevarro.” It was a foreign concept, and Boba couldn’t help a twinge of hurt, but Din wasn’t saying he wasn’t enough. This was just how everyone else operated, how people who had others in their corner worked. He didn’t _have_ to be alone, didn’t have to figure out how to do everything without help or anyone to rely on. It didn’t mean that Boba wasn’t enough, probably.

“Oh, yeah? Where do you suggest we go first? Which of the many planets where we’ve made friends?” Boba smiled, so Din wouldn’t see him wondering about it. He stood, stretched. “On the other hand, if I tell people I’ll be in Nevarro, they’ll show up to kill me, and at least some of them will probably shoot the Imperials, right? Statistically?”

“I was thinking Sorgan,” Din said, and Boba groaned. “I trust her, and I think she’d help us out. She liked the kid.”

“She hated me.” Everyone hated him. He _deserved_ it, he knew that, but – but he already wasn’t enough, to keep Din safe, and now they needed the help of someone who hated him.

“And after her, I’m thinking Kuiil.”

“I’m pretty sure he hated me, too.” Boba dropped into the other chair. “I am starting to feel like the problem. Imagine that,” he quipped, because it was easier than saying it seriously. _I’m the problem,_ because he was everything wrong with his own life, and who was he supposed to blame for that if not himself?

“You told Cara she was a nobody within two minutes of meeting her. I think that makes you the problem.”

“Speaking of being the problem,” Boba said, ran a hand through his hair, feeling a slight shake in his hands. Because – he was the problem. He was always the problem, and being with Din – Din had told him to stay, that they were going to stay together, and it was pathetic to need to hear it again, but – “You know I’d –” He’d leave. If it was what Din wanted, he would leave Din to a safer life without him sooner rather than later. He didn’t understand what was supposed to happen later, but Din had told him to stay and Boba just – just needed to hear it again. 

“I know,” Din said. “Don’t.”

Boba realized what he’d have to do, as soon as they arrived on Sorgan and he picked up his helmet. Cara despised him for everything he’d done while wearing this armor; it was a symbol of the violence he’d wreaked, and to show up with it was to still be the same thing. Without it, he was nothing, but – but nothing was better than what his name had come to mean. He set the helmet back down.

“Ba?” the child noticed immediately, ears perking up. It toddled to where he’d left his helmet on the floor, patting it with both hands.

“It’s okay,” Boba said. He opened the weapons locker, swapped out his green armor for the spare set Din had; it was mostly because he didn’t want the rest of the armor to remind Cara of everything he’d done. He could have just gone with nothing, but even the thought of that made him feel overly exposed, and this was _Din’s._ It didn’t fit him quite right, clearly more suited to Din’s broader frame, but it was all the more comforting that way, a reminder he could keep with him even when Din wasn’t right beside him.

When he looked down, the child still peered at him in confusion. It scooted the helmet towards him helpfully.

“Ba.” Boba scooped the child into his arms, went to put down the ship’s ramp and walk outside. “Ba,” the child kept pointing backwards, clearly concerned for him.

“Don’t worry kiddo, I didn’t forget it,” Boba said, though his heart was racing like he had. People were going to see his face. It wasn’t the first time, he tried to remind himself, it didn’t really _matter._ Not like he was a Mandalorian, and this was forbidden by creed. He just dreaded ever meeting someone who could look at him and first, before anything else, see _clone._ Once they saw that, they always stopped trying to see anything else.

Din appeared at the top of the ramp, and Boba could breathe a tiny bit easier, then. At least he wouldn’t be alone. Din may not have known the entire story, but even if he did, Boba thought, he’d still be gentle. If he knew Boba was just a clone – wouldn’t he? Would he feel like Boba had been hiding that from him?

Boba started into the surrounding forest, Din following closely; he kept looking over at Boba though. The tilt of his helmet gave away his bafflement, like he was as mystified as the child at seeing Boba helmetless outside the ship. The child was just as confused as Din, kept reaching to touch Boba’s face with its tiny hands.

“Look,” Boba said, when Din had looked at him at least a dozen times, “I don’t want her to say no because of me.”

“She’d do it for the kid, even if she hates you.”

“I know. She’d be doing it for you, too. She’d do it for you guys, despite me.” Boba sighed. He didn’t _want_ to be the worst thing about Din. Din was so _good,_ and keeping Boba around would make Cara concerned for him, this clearly a ruinous choice. “I’ll never stop being what I’ve done,” Boba said, “but maybe if she sees I’m more than that, she won’t be so worried when she sees you’re still with me.” He would never deserve Din, he knew that. But – but hoping to be something that didn’t ruin Din, something that wasn’t a bad choice, wasn’t that attainable? He couldn’t be _good,_ but he could be better.

The common house was filled with a crowd so noisy, Boba worried it would wake the child even from down the pathway. The child had fallen asleep during Din’s turn to carry it, and slept in his arms, though it didn’t stir even as they entered the noisy building. A lively laser-tethered boxing match was in progress, and one of the participants was Cara. She was handily beating her opponent, the crowd roaring its entertainment.

Din went ahead to sit at a table to wait, and Boba hung back. Surely Din would want to prepare her for the fact that he was still around. Boba realized abruptly that Cara probably thought Boba had _left_ Din. The last time he’d seen her was right before he’d left Sorgan without Din; she would have seen Din afterwards, and had Din been hurt? Disappointed? There was another terrible thing he’d done that she would see as him, that _was_ him.

Cara won her match, but still, Boba didn’t follow. How was he supposed to face her, if she thought he’d left Din and the child for good? She probably thought he was a monster, for that, for everything.

“Hey!” A man’s voice shook Boba back into the noise of the crowd, and he lifted his head. “You lining up, or what?”

“Sure,” Boba said, because, well, why not. He was suddenly filled with a nervous, unsteady energy, and he’d rather beat it out of himself before he faced Cara, who thought he was an abandoning, murderous asshole that had left Din alone.

It didn’t exactly work, if he was being honest. He threw himself into the match whole-heartedly, but it wasn’t enough of a distraction; he ducked a few punches and threw several quick jabs, and then dove to the floor and kicked out from there, something no one ever seemed to expect. Maybe it would have worked better if he’d been hit harder.

“Sneaky,” one of the men said it as a compliment, dropping a few coins into Boba’s hand for his win. Boba shrugged a shoulder.

“Floor’s there for everyone,” he pointed out. It wasn’t his problem, that people hesitated to dive to the ground just because of the risk. He hardly ever regretted it, except on Mustafar, when his poor timing had earned him a boot to the ribs. The Zabrak he’d just beaten was glaring his way as though he wished he’d been able to land that same move. He’d been too slow; Boba had easily jerked out of the way.

He couldn’t avoid seeing Cara any longer though, so he slunk across the room towards the table. She looked up when he approached, smiled.

“Nice match,” she said, “I’d bet on you next time.” Of course she didn’t recognize him.

“I don’t think you would.” Boba pulled out the chair next to Din’s, and it was heartening to see the child reaching for him immediately.

“Ba,” the child cooed, and Din passed it over to Boba; Boba wrapped his arms around it, the child wiggling happily. Cara’s expression clouded.

“Oh, no fucking way,” she said, openly staring now. “It is you.” Boba felt almost irresistibly like apologizing. Din cleared his throat.

“I don’t know if we could do it alone,” he said to Cara, “we just can’t take that chance. If we can kill the Client, we can keep the kid safe.”

“Interesting,” Cara said, gaze firmly on Boba, “for someone who already abandoned it.”

“I know.” Boba looked down at the child, ran a fingertip along its ear; the child gave a happy coo, ears wiggling. He didn’t expect her to treat him as though he could start over; he never could. He was the man who’d left Din and the child on Sorgan. The one who’d taken unjust bounties and unflinchingly carried out mercenary work and served the Empire. That was _him,_ that was all there was _to_ him. “Here’s the thing,” Boba said, “Mandalorians believe in a clean slate. Once you become one of them, everything you did before – it’s forgotten.” He’d always hated that, for the sheer arrogance of it. To leave behind everything they’d done, and still _be_ something. To somehow be someone free of what they’d done, as though that didn’t make them _into_ the person they were.

“Uh-huh,” Cara arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t believe in that,” Boba said, and a tiny flicker of surprise crossed Cara’s face. “Not for me. Not for what I’ve been. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I’m asking you to help me keep it behind me, by helping the kid.”

“What makes you think you’re _good_ for the kid?” she asked, and Boba _knew_ he wasn’t. He knew that. Wasn’t good for the child, wasn’t good for Din, was still here because he was too selfish to leave and free them from him. He knew, he _knew._

“Maybe right now, all I can offer is a willingness to die for it,” Boba said, “I want to be able to offer more than that, though. I don’t want leaving to be the best thing I can do for them.” He’d never deserve Din. He just wanted to be good enough so he wouldn’t _hurt_ Din. He wasn’t someone to raise a child with, to ever fall in love with, he wasn’t _anyone._ He was a clone who had done terrible things, but he wanted to stay near Din so badly it hurt.

Cara sighed, and she looked at Din searchingly, as though she was trying to find any kind of explanation for why he’d want this, why he was letting Boba stay.

“You must be cute under that helmet,” she said to Din, and Boba felt like he’d been punched. He already wanted Din so _much,_ already loved him and he knew he’d never seen Din’s face, but he’d been thinking about that as just wanting to know what Din looked like, to know all of him. How hadn’t he wondered how _attractive_ Din was? Boba would fall apart, if Din was gentle and kind and _handsome._ He already couldn’t lie in bed next to Din without his dick getting hard, and if Din was handsome? Boba would be wrecked.

“Fine. I’m in,” Cara was telling Din; Boba had to look away, sure he was turning red, that Din would be able to see his thoughts written across his face. Boba had no right, to wonder what Din looked like, to lust after someone who clearly didn’t think of him in the same way, Din hadn’t wanted _that_ when he asked Boba to stay.

“Well, sooner this is over with, the better,” Boba said, stood with the child in his arms and left the table without looking at Din. He could feel his face burning.

Outside, the cool air was almost enough to make him shiver. He set the child down on the path, and the child cooed with interest, wandering towards the bushes.

“Don’t put anything in your mouth,” Boba warned, and the child made a disgruntled sound. “I mean it. I can see you thinking about it.” The child chirped and picked up a stick. Giggling, it moved it slowly towards its mouth. “Very funny,” Boba said, and the child twittered in delight.

Boba looked back towards the common house again, crossed his arms over his chest. Din’s pauldrons shifted on his shoulders, too big for him. Fuck, if Din ever let Boba see his face, Boba would probably do something embarrassing, like ask to be kissed. As if Din would ever, although he hadn’t exactly thrown Boba out of his bed, either, hadn’t seemed alarmed to wake up holding him. At the very least, he wasn’t repelled, although he didn’t know Boba was a clone and might feel differently, knowing that.

Din and Cara approached a few moments later, and the child waved at them, held a stick up to Cara immediately. She blinked down at it in clear confusion.

“It wants you to take it,” Boba prompted, since she didn’t seem to understand what the child wanted. He still couldn’t look at Din.

“It’s a stick.”

“Take it.”

“Why?”

“Just take the stick,” Boba sighed. Cara gave him a puzzled look, but complied. The child squealed happily, and then proceeded to hand her another.

They made a brief stop for supplies at a shop Cara directed them to; the child pointed to seemingly everything and its pouting became noisy protests when it wasn’t allowed to have a truly gigantic basket that might have been a krill farming tool.

“We don’t need to scream about it,” Boba said, as the child pointed emphatically and made surprisingly loud complaining sounds that made other shoppers look at them. For once, people were looking at Boba with a sort of recognition followed by sympathy; they thought he was a parent whose kid was pitching a fit. He’d never felt so normal, and the feeling made his throat close up a little. “Let’s go.” He held the struggling child in his arms, paused to bump Din’s shoulder with his own, though the contact made his breathing stutter. “We’ll wait outside. Here,” he retrieved from his pocket the laser-tethered boxing winnings he’d accumulated, dropped the coins into Din’s hand. “Do not buy it the basket,” he added, knowing Din would want to.

“I wouldn’t,” Din protested, and Boba couldn’t help but smile. How helpless was it, that he didn’t even need to see Din’s face, to love him this much? He didn’t know how to save himself, not when Din was this soft, this compassionate. 

“You were thinking about it.”

Boba left with the child, who was doing its best to throw a tantrum while still in his arms. He headed back towards the path that led to the ship, hoisted the child further up his shoulder as it tried to squirm free.

“Hey,” Boba said, and though the child pretended to ignore him, Boba saw its ear twitch. “Everything is fine. We’re going to wait out here until they’re finished. Can you do that for me?” He patted its little back, rocked it slightly. At least this was easy; he always knew what to do with the child, maybe because this was all it expected of him. Nothing bad, nothing terrible, just comfort.

The child’s squirming calmed after a few minutes, and it blinked up at Boba, pointed towards the ground. “Sure,” Boba said, set it down on the path. When Din and Cara returned, the child was back to its happy mood, shoving things into its pockets cheerily. Din was carrying a blanket that must not have fit in the bag Cara held; Boba hid a smile. He’d known Din would want to get the child something to improve its cradle.

“Where’d you get that from?” Din asked the child; it was stuffing something into its mouth. He looked at Cara, who shrugged.

“Did you teach it to steal?” she asked Boba. He couldn’t help but scoff, scrunch his nose in irritation. As though he’d ever needed to steal.

“When in my career do you think theft was necessary?”

“Tell me, did you have to pay back Solo’s bounty, since he didn’t stay caught?”

“I considered it payment for kicking me into the Sarlacc pit,” Boba said dryly, but just the thought of it made his chest constrict. He hunched his shoulders involuntarily, fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself as though it would hide him. What was next? First they talked about how terrible he was for Din and the kid, and now they were revisiting _this?_ Boba wanted this to be over, didn’t want to be here anymore, wanted to be – to be with Din, in his bed, where it was safe and comforting. Boba had never had such a clear idea of where he wanted to be, before, but the morning’s blissful coziness called to him irresistibly.

“That _is_ edible, right?” Din interrupted, and Boba leaned down, inspected what the kid was hurriedly shoving into its mouth.

“Yeah.”

Once the child had finished scarfing down whatever fruit it had stolen from the shop, it resumed handing Cara sticks as they walked along the path.

“I will never understand kids,” Cara said, once the child had handed her a dozen sticks of varying sizes. When the child somehow managed to float over a truly gigantic portion of a tree branch and giggled when Cara stared at it, Boba couldn’t help but snicker too. He just _adored_ this kid, was hit so hard by the realization every now and then. The child was theirs, his and Din’s, and Boba just, he _loved_ it.

Once they reached the Crest, Din continued on to the cockpit with the child in his arms, leaving Boba alone with Cara below deck. For lack of anything better to do, he beckoned her over to the weapons locker, so she could see the selection she could borrow from.

“Pretty standard,” Boba said, as Cara peered in at it with interest. She kept looking over her shoulder at him though, clearly not used to seeing him without his helmet. He tried his best to ignore her, put Din’s armor back into the cabinet, though he wouldn’t have minded holding on to it a little longer. His own armor didn’t feel quite as safe, anymore.

“This is still so weird,” she said eventually, and Boba frowned.

“Did you think I didn’t _have_ a face?” he asked, couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. She didn’t even know, he kept reminding himself, she was just used to him wearing armor. She didn’t _know,_ she wasn’t staring at him because she _knew._ It wasn’t like when his father would introduce Boba as his son, and people would look confused, because they _knew_ he was identical to the clones, knew he _was one_ and didn’t understand why this one was the son and the others weren’t _._ Wasn’t like when he met an Imperial officer who had dealt with clones after the war, and had looked startled to see one again. Wasn’t like when he met someone who had worked with his father, and she’d given him startled looks like she was seeing a ghost. Wasn’t like when he was back on Kamino, and one of the 501st clones had seen him without his helmet and looked both betrayed and stunned.

“Just because I know there’s a person under there doesn’t make this any less weird. Why did it matter, anyways? Everyone knows who you are already. Is it the Mandalorian thing?” Cara asked, and Boba clenched his jaw, shook his head.

“No.” What did it matter? What did it matter to the _Mandalorians,_ who did it because they didn’t appreciate being individuals? How arrogant, to pretend not to have names or faces, how easy to falsely give up something they still had. The clones had all gone to such lengths to create these things for themselves, naming themselves and changing their appearances as much as they could manage. A pointless endeavor, Boba had always thought, because there _was no difference._ They were all the same, him included; as much as his father had acted like Boba was different, there was no difference Boba could ever see, no matter how desperately he hunted for it. Separating him from the others at birth and naming him had done nothing but set him apart; in being named, he was alone, but he was no different.

Boba didn’t think he could handle another minute of the way Cara was looking at him. He turned away, climbed the ladder to the cockpit; if he hadn’t left his helmet sitting on the floor near where Cara was standing, he’d have grabbed it too, put it on and probably never been so stupid as to take it off in front of people again.

It was quiet, in the cockpit. The child slept in its cradle, bundled in the blanket Din had gotten for it. Din sat in the pilot’s chair, looking out the viewscreen. Boba sank into the second chair. Did Din think he was pretending to be a Mandalorian, by always hiding his face? That would be Din’s only frame of reference for it – he didn’t know, didn’t know Boba was a clone, and _oh,_ Boba hoped he never would. The thought of Din finding out, of Din looking at him differently, feeling lied to by Boba, it was crushing and it wasn’t even happening yet.

“It’s not because I think I’m a Mandalorian,” Boba eventually said, quietly. “I just don’t like being recognized. I _hate_ it.”

The last time it had happened had been seven years ago. He’d been hurt badly enough that he had to actually seek medical attention, so he begrudgingly left his armor behind and took himself to a hospital. He’d killed his target deep in enemy territory, and had been tempted to try and leave the planet despite the state he was in, just to avoid facing any of these people. The broken thigh bone had made it difficult, and the amount of blood he was losing from several serious wounds made it impossible.

It was after surgery and when he was almost ready to leave, when it happened. A doctor came up to his bed to check up on him before authorizing a discharge, and the man had gone wide-eyed at the sight of him. Boba had tensed, ready to bolt from the room, but the look on the man’s face wasn’t – couldn’t be for him. He was looking at Boba with something like relieved awe.

“Twelve?” he’d asked, looked to be on the verge of a flood of gratitude. Boba had flinched, drawn back, felt suddenly overwhelmed with a sick familiarity – he was a clone, he was being seen as a clone, because that’s what he _was._

“No,” he’d managed, and the man had looked crestfallen. Boba was never the _right_ clone. He was already nothing, and now, he wasn’t even the right one, and he knew, he knew that no one had ever seen any of the other clones and hoped that was _him._ Boba was never the right one.

“Sorry, you look like someone I knew,” the doctor had said, but he hadn’t been able to keep the questioning look off his face, clearly knew Boba was a clone and was wondering which one, how he’d lived this long, how he’d escaped and ended up here. Hadn’t had to wonder _if_ he was a clone, because looking at him made it obvious. Boba had left the hospital feeling worse than when he’d gone in, had avoided taking contracts for a week afterwards because he kept thinking back to the hospital, and it would rip him apart until he was sobbing, no ability to stop it. It had taken a while, before he felt pulled together enough to face anyone.

Boba tried to stop thinking about it. He didn’t want to, not now, not in front of Din. It had been one of the small, stupid things that hurt him the most, had plagued him for years afterwards. It was just that – that no one ever wanted it to be _him._

“I like your face,” Din’s voice broke through Boba’s thoughts. Boba arched his eyebrows, gaze sliding towards Din as he tried to comprehend the words. “I mean. Seeing it. Uh. You get it,” Din stammered out. Boba smiled, felt such a crushing wave of affection for Din that he thought he might be in real danger of blurting it out.

“Thank you,” he managed. He couldn’t quite understand it, but he thought that Din really _meant_ it, wasn’t just saying it to make Boba feel better. Din _liked_ seeing Boba’s face. The shyness in his voice had revealed it, the way Din had turned away again and was fidgeting restlessly, a self-conscious hunch to his shoulders. Boba didn’t know what he was supposed to interpret from this, how hopeful he was allowed to be, but it had to mean something, even if just that Din appreciated his objective attractiveness. That was more than Boba could have asked for, from him. Maybe one day, when they’d inevitably parted, Din would see another clone, and hope it was Boba.


	13. Chapter 13

The setting sun looked the same as it had the first time they’d visited Kuiil’s moisture farm. Boba could still remember the exact way he’d felt, watching Din learn to ride a blurrg and feeling like he had someone on his team for the first time. It seemed obvious now, that Boba had loved him even then.

Din had paused at the bottom of the Crest’s ramp, watching Cara and the child across the clearing. The child was meandering in circles, Cara seemingly unsure how to lead it along when it kept changing direction.

“If we have to go into hiding and quit bounty hunting,” Boba said, as he joined Din at the foot of the ramp; he couldn’t resist touching Din, and slid his arm over Din’s broad shoulders as he stood beside Din. Did Din shiver, maybe? Lean into Boba’s side just the tiniest bit? “I think you could ride blurrg in the galaxy’s first blurrg rodeo. Or is that already a thing?”

Last time they’d talked about blurrgs, Boba’s attempt to flirt with him had been completely overlooked, but would Din be receptive now? Boba didn’t think he could pull it off again, couldn’t possibly sound _casual_ about it now that he wanted Din this badly. Now, he’d thought about it before, had woken up beside Din in bed and been swept away by the thought of Din touching him. Now, he couldn’t say _I could ride anything_ without his voice getting husky with the thought of it, of straddling Din and sinking down onto him, Din’s hands tight on Boba’s hips, his voice a deep, deep growl as he fucked Boba. Boba shifted, drew in a steadying breath and tried to will away his growing hard-on.

“Not much of a career choice.” Din’s amusement was warm; maybe he thought about it sometimes, too, the first time they’d been here. Not the way Boba did, but – something good, at least.

“Bantha tie-down roping,” Boba said thoughtfully. Din could tie him down, hold him down, fucking – _whatever,_ really. He just wanted to feel Din everywhere, feel like there was nothing else in the world.

“I am not doing that.” Din tilted his head just enough to glance over at Boba. “Not because I _couldn’t,”_ he added, and Boba grinned. He’d put his helmet back on for this trip, but it hadn’t felt quite as necessary, this time. Din knew his face, _liked_ seeing him. The thought filled him with a warmth not unlike being held. 

“You’d just choose not to. Sure, I believe you.”

“Are we doing the right thing?” Din blurted out suddenly. He ducked his head a little as if in apology, as though Boba could ever hold his worrying against him. “Bringing in other people? We’re risking their lives. They could die for this.”

Boba sighed, looked back out at the farm. The child was throwing rocks into the air directly above its head, and Cara kept having to grab them before they could fall back down onto it. It felt different than it ever had before, being joined by other people. Cara and Kuiil, they both _cared_ about Din. And Boba was his, unquestioningly. This wasn’t at all like when Boba had tried it before, relying on other people.

“They’re choosing to come aboard,” Boba said. “I never worked with anyone, because at the beginning, I tried once. One guy sold us out, the other killed him but then left me behind, and I went to prison. We were all just using each other, really. I was young and single-minded, I didn’t realize that people could use me while I was using them. This is different,” he insisted, “This isn’t just people using each other for their own goal. They want to help you, because you’re doing the right thing.”

“Were you?” Din asked; Boba slid his arm from Din’s shoulders, crossed his arms over his chest. Of course he wasn’t; he knew it, had known it for years, but having Din see it was gut-wrenching. Din _knew_ what he’d done, he tried to remind himself, but it was hard to believe that if Din knew everything, if he _really_ knew, he would still be understanding. How could he?

“I was fourteen and trying to kill the Jedi who killed my father,” Boba said, “so I thought I was. We’ll take care of them,” he said, nodding towards the farm, “that’s the difference.”

In the distance, Cara had stopped walking, turned back towards them. “Hey!” she yelled, “do I look like a free babysitter?”

“The kid’s trying to eat a rock,” Boba called back, “I certainly wouldn’t pay for you.”

“Get over here and carry it, then!” Cara shouted, but she picked the child up herself, lifting it up to ride on her shoulders. The child’s delighted sounds could be heard even from where they stood.

“We can keep them all safe, right?” Din asked, because he was the gentlest, softest man Boba had ever met, because he would die to protect others, because he was the only person in the galaxy who had seen a ruthless, unforgivable bounty hunter and wanted to save him. If anyone could do it, it was _Din,_ not Boba. Boba was a legend of other, worse things. If he’d been capable of saving people, he’d have started with himself. He’d have become something different.

Up ahead, the child was floating rocks into its hands, giggling when Cara had to duck them. Boba started towards them, looked over his shoulder twice before Din started to follow him.

“Kuill will be surprised to see the kid again,” Din said, and Boba almost laughed.

“Doubt it.”

“Why?” Din sounded genuinely perplexed, as though he had no idea how people perceived him. Boba couldn’t imagine being free of that.

“I’m sure he knew you couldn’t turn in a baby for a bounty.”

As predicted, Kuiil seemed more amused than surprised, when he saw the child with them. He inspected it with interest, circled it like it was another animal he was taming. The child cooed and waved.

“It hasn’t grown much,” he said, and Boba snorted a laugh. Kuiil beckoned them into his tent, and Din scooped up the child before following Kuiil, Cara heading in after him. When Boba ducked through the tent flap, he lingered by the entrance.

“Maybe it’s a strand-cast,” Din was saying to Kuiil, who shook his head.

“I don’t think it was engineered. I’ve worked in the gene farms. This one looks evolved. Too ugly.”

“Hey,” Boba muttered; the idea that the child had been created at a farm, or a _lab,_ was impossible. It was too sweet, too gentle, and even this young, had a personality all its own; it never could have been a clone. When Boba looked over, Din was clearing a blanket off the chair beside his, and Boba hoped it was an invitation to sit beside him. He sank down onto the chair and reached to take the child from Din, brought it up to his shoulder. “You’re not ugly,” he whispered, “and I know you weren’t engineered. You’re fine.” 

“This one, on the other hand,” Kuiil pointed to Cara, “looks like she was farmed in the Cytocaves of Nora.”

“Naah,” Boba interjected, “too volatile.”

“You’re one to talk,” Cara didn’t seem terribly bothered, though, too pleased with Kuiil’s remark. Din introduced Cara to Kuiil and Boba tuned out the discussion about Cara’s past; the child was yawning, and Boba wondered if they should have been trying to give it a consistent naptime, if it was at the age where that kind of schedule would be good for it. Probably, he thought.

The sound of clattering crockery didn’t alarm Boba, but Din leaping to his feet and drawing his blaster did; Boba didn’t bother to see what was at the door, just ducked behind the rows of chairs and hid with the child behind a dresser. The child blinked up at him.

“Shh,” Boba murmured, beneath the clamor of voices and the sound of his own rapidly beating heart that filled his ears. “It’s fine. Din’s got it.” Boba leaned out from behind the dresser, hand on his blaster ready to draw, but everything was calm again. The bounty droid was back and Din was holding it at gunpoint as Kuiil insisted that it wouldn’t harm them.

“That thing is programmed to kill the baby.” Din turned, and then turned again, until he seemed to find Boba and the child at the back of the room, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. The child waved at him.

“See,” Boba murmured. “He’s so good, isn’t he?” He didn’t like the way the droid’s presence was making Din agitated, though; Din was already nervous, he didn’t need this to handle on top of their impending task. Boba could hardly blame Kuiil, who couldn’t have known about Din’s aversion to droids, but it still felt like an oversight.

“Not anymore,” Kuiil waved them back over. IG-11 placed the tray on the table, and Boba stalked back over, unable to shake his irritation at the droid’s appearance. The child wiggled, seeming to sense his unhappiness. “It was left behind in the wake of your destruction. I found it, laying where it fell, devoid of all life. I recovered the flotsam and staked it as my own in accordance with the Charter of the New Republic.”

“Ba,” the child squirmed, reaching towards the tea tray. Boba stepped closer to Din, hoping he would somehow feel comforted, not alone in the face of something that distressed him. 

“The child requests a cookie,” IG-11 pointed out, and Boba snarled in its direction. Kuiil explained how he’d rebuilt the droid, and Boba watched as the child concentrated on the plate of cookies, waited for the inevitable; he was right, and the child managed to float a cookie into its little hands. Watching someone use the Force still made a chill run down Boba’s spine, but he tried to shake it; the child was different, wasn’t using the Force the same way Boba had seen it used before.

“Tea?” IG-11 interjected, and Boba growled.

“Maybe you could leave us alone for a few minutes,” he said tightly, “so we can talk to Kuiil.”

“Very well,” the droid obeyed; the tent remained silent for a long moment after it had left.

“We’ve run into some problems,” Din said, taking his seat again.

“I figured as much. Why else would you return?” Kuiil took a teacup for himself, offered one to Cara; she sat beside Kuiil, accepted the cup.

“We’d like to hire your services.”

“I’m retired from services.”

“We need someone to protect the little one,” Boba spoke up. “Someone we can trust.”

“I’m not suited for such work. I can reprogram IG-11 for nursing and protocol.”

“ _No,”_ Din protested, and the vehemence of his voice made Boba want to reach for him. “I don’t want it anywhere near the child.”

“Why are you so distrustful of droids?”

“It tried to kill the kid,” Boba interrupted, so Din wouldn’t have to answer “why would we hire a babysitter who’s literally already tried to kill the kid it would be watching?”

“It was programmed to do so. Droids are not good or bad, they are neutral reflections of those who imprint them.”

“I’ve seen otherwise,” Din muttered. His fists were clenched tight, and Boba wavered a moment before he extended a hand, ran a fingertip over the back of Din’s hand, the most he dared to do. If he’d known Mando’a, he would have spoken it, whispered to Din in their secret language, _I’ve got you_ and _you’re safe, the baby’s safe._ They didn’t have a secret language, though.

“Do you trust me?” Kuiil asked. Din nodded. “Then you will trust my work. IG-11 will join me. And we do not do it for payment, but to protect the child from Imperial slavery. None will be free until the old ways are gone, forever.” He looked over the rim of his teacup at Boba for a long moment and Boba wanted to recoil. “You worked for them freely,” he said. “Am I to believe you’ve seen the error of your ways?”

“Yes.” He didn’t know how to _convince_ someone of that, something so obvious it felt branded on him. He’d lost everything he’d been before, and none of it had ever mattered.

“The blurrgs will join me as well,” Kuiil added, looking the tiniest bit amused when Din gave a surprised sound, “I have spoken.” So – that was it. He was convinced. Boba tried not to look surprised, tried not to look like he desperately wanted to know _why_ Kuiil believed him.

They set about leaving immediately; Din’s lingering was apparent to Boba, though no one else seemed to realize he was dragging his feet in leaving, seemingly unwilling to leave the planet. When they were ready to close the ramp of the ship, Boba didn’t bother checking if Din was already up in the cockpit, knew he’d still be outside, and headed out to find him.

Din stood at the bottom of the ramp, looking back towards Kuiil’s farm. “Ready to go?” Boba asked, voice soft so he wouldn’t startle Din. He didn’t know what Din was thinking about – something faraway? Something good? There was something softly wistful, in the way he sighed.

“Is this where you decided you might want to stick around?” Din asked, waving a hand towards Kuiil’s farm. And – him? Din was thinking about _him?_ Boba felt himself flush with pleasure, and he couldn’t help a surprised laugh at Din’s words.

“Here?” Boba shrugged a little, looked away so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for Din. How could Din think it was _here,_ this long after Boba had met him? He’d been a legend in Boba’s life since the moment they met. “You came for me when I was dying. I thought Mustafar was just another pit I would die in, and you came for me. That was when.” It seemed impossible, that it wasn’t written all over him, right there for Din to read: Boba had been falling in love with him since the moment they met. “Are you ready to go?” Boba gestured hastily towards the ship, eager to change the subject before Din asked him something he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from answering truthfully, “Cara’s going to steal the ship if you take any longer.”

“I doubt she’d do that,” Din said, sounding amused; maybe Boba had made him feel slightly better, about whatever was worrying him. Boba turned and headed back up the ramp. He couldn’t shake it – Din, thinking about _him,_ wondering when Boba had decided he wanted to stay, asking about it in a soft voice like it was _important,_ like Boba was part of a different story now, not just one of the replaceable clones but someone important in Din’s life, his arrival an event, his staying a redirection. He asked when Boba had wanted to stay and said he _liked_ seeing Boba’s face; they were tiny, hopeful things Boba could cling to, and he took off his helmet before heading further into the ship.

Boba slipped past Cara and Kuiil in the cargo bay, intending to hide out in the cockpit. He didn’t manage to get by without Cara noticing him though, and her strange look made him tense, made him wish he hadn’t taken off his helmet after all. For _once,_ he’d wanted to, and he was already regretting it. He was just hoping Din would say something.

“What,” he huffed, and she held up her hands.

“Nothing, nothing. Just weird.”

“It’s not _weird,”_ he muttered, continued up the ladder. Din joined him moments later, and Boba could have happily stayed there for the entire flight, just the two of them; he set his helmet down on the console and stretched his legs out in front of him, watching Din set their flight plan. Although the cockpit was small, he was pretty sure that his seat was still out of Din’s eyeline enough that he could watch Din without being noticed. When Din reached for one of the farther levers, Boba could see a sliver of bare wrist; all he could think about was Din’s hand on his hip, when he’d been sleeping beside Boba.

Boba was half hoping Din would somehow understand his desire to hide up in the cockpit for the entire flight, but not long after entering hyperspace, Din stood from his seat.

“Should we go down?” he asked, the _we_ softening the suggestion. Boba nodded, and it was only once he was stepping off the ladder that he realized he’d left his helmet in the cockpit. In case he hadn’t noticed, Cara’s bewildered look as soon as she saw him would have reminded him, and he wanted to shrink back, duck behind Din’s broad back to hide. Maybe he could slip past her and escape to the cargo bay, although he could hear Kuiil there with the blurrgs he’d brought. She was already looking at him, though, and he scowled in response.

“Quit it.”

“What?” Cara rolled her eyes. “It’s –”

“Weird, I know, you fucking mentioned,” Boba muttered, clenching his teeth.

“Nice ship,” Cara said to Din, as he went over to the bed to check on the child; it was busy rolling itself into one of the blankets, making little grunting sounds of concentration as it did. “No way that’s the only bed, right?”

“Do you see another one?” Din sounded amused. Boba looked around, but with nowhere else to go, he had no choice but to slink over to the weaponry locker, where he slid down to sit on the floor.

“Where do _you_ sleep?” Cara asked Boba, a wry note to it; he felt his face heat up, hoped desperately he wasn’t turning red.

“Why, you want to smother me in my sleep?” He knew he sounded too irritable for a casual conversation, but couldn’t help it. He was sure that the real answer was written across his face: _sometimes in his bed, and I like it._ Din interrupted, thankfully, by handing him the child swaddled at the center of the rolled-up blanket. “Look at you,” Boba said, accepting it gratefully into his arms, “How’d you manage that?”

“How’s Kuiil doing with the blurrgs?” Din asked Cara, and Boba didn’t pay attention to her answer, half turned away so he could set the child down on the floor, gently roll it back and forth in its blanket cylinder, the child giggling madly and squealing in protest whenever he stopped. When the child unrolled itself, it happily sprawled on the floor, cooing up at him.

“Hey,” Boba heard after a few minutes, looked over his shoulder to see Cara giving him an expectant look.

“What?”

“I said, come arm wrestle me.”

“No. You just want an excuse to hit me,” he said, and Cara snorted.

“Arm wrestling doesn’t involve punching.”

“I’m sure with you, it does.” Boba frowned. He couldn’t _stand_ the way she looked at him, too reminiscent of the way people had looked at him when he was growing up. Like his face confused them, like they couldn’t understand how he existed. He knew Cara was just use to seeing him with a helmet and that this wasn’t the same, but it felt so similar that he squirmed under her gaze uncomfortably. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“It’s _strange,”_ Cara insisted, like he somehow didn’t know. It shouldn’t have bothered him so much, he should have been past this, past the point where Cara’s entirely unrelated confusion didn’t _remind_ him, but – but somehow, he wasn’t. Every now and then, after his father went to the cloning facility, there would be a moment right after he got back when Boba came to greet him, where he’d look at Boba and just seem so – disoriented, like he’d forgotten whether he was looking at his son or one of the soldiers. _Hey, Boba,_ he’d say, like he had to remind himself that this was Boba, the one that had been named, because that was the only way to differentiate them.

“It’s not strange, you’re just not used to it,” Din interrupted, and Boba suppressed a whimper of gratitude. Din was used to it, Din _liked_ it, he kept reminding himself. It was okay; Din _liked_ it. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Watching Din arm wrestle Cara was the only good thing to come of the conversation; Boba sighed, tipped his head back against the wall, tried not to openly stare at Din’s bulging bicep, though that probably would have been better than what he did instead, which was to picture Din pushing him up against a wall, those muscular arms caging him in as Din leaned closer –

“No, stop!” Din’s voice broke into Boba’s thoughts, and it took Boba a moment to register what was happening – the child was Force-choking Cara. “We’re friends!” Din was insisting to the child, sounding nearly frantic, “It’s okay! Stop! No!”

“Hey,” Boba reached over to push down the child’s outstretched hand with two fingers. “Stop that. We don’t choke our friends.” Not that he really considered Cara their friend, but Din seemed to. The child blinked up at Boba with a pout, but it released Cara from the Force-hold it had on her.

“Not okay!” Cara said, as Kuiil made fascinated sounds from his spot in the cargo hold.

“Curious,” Kuiil murmured.

“Curious?! It almost killed me!” Cara protested, which Boba thought was pretty dramatic. He knew what it was like, to be Force-choked with purpose, and that hadn’t been it. Boba ignored them, scooped the child into his arms and brought it over to its cradle by the bed. The child’s ears drooped, and gave grumbling little noises of complaint as Boba set it down in the blankets.

“Listen,” Boba knelt down in front of the cradle, the child grabbing onto his outstretched hand. “You thought Cara was hurting him, didn’t you?” The child nodded. Boba bit his lip, fished for what to say, how to convey nuance to a baby. “Right. Well, it’s nice that you want to protect him. But – that’s just not a job for babies, okay? You’re a baby. You don’t have to worry about protecting him.” The child gave a whine of protest. “I promise to take care of him. If you’re scared, you tell us.” He stood, picked the child up again. “So, we’re going to have a time-out so you can think of a better way to tell us you’re upset.” He set the child down on the bed and then climbed in himself. “Just three minutes, okay?”

Boba leaned against the wall, the child flopping down beside him. Out in the room, he could hear Din’s voice as he asked Kuiil to improve the child’s cradle for them, to make it more comfortable. When Din went up to the cockpit, Boba was ready to follow him, until he saw Cara cross over to the ladder and go up instead; Boba slumped back against the wall, defeated. He wasn’t exactly eager to spend more time with Cara and the way she looked at him, like he didn’t deserve to look like a real person after what he’d done while wearing a helmet. It was hard to step past any of it, when the way she looked at him pinned him in place.

“Ba?” the child clung to his knee, looking up at him imploringly.

“Good job, it’s been three minutes,” Boba said, though he wasn’t quite sure it actually had been. “Do you understand, about telling us when you’re scared?” The child patted his knee, and Boba took it as a yes. “Alright, kid. That’s good.”

The child didn’t try and leave the bed, seemed content to toddle to the end and watch whatever Kuiil was doing as it fiddled with the laces on Boba’s boot. Boba tipped his head back to the wall, kept listening for the sound of Cara leaving the cockpit, but it didn’t come. He was still surprised she’d come at all, after the way she’d looked at him when they first met on Sorgan, like he was the most dangerous threat to the village despite the raiders. _I wouldn’t,_ he kept wanting to snarl, but what good was that when he already had, in the past?

“How is this?” he heard after a few minutes, Kuiil speaking to the child. The child cooed with interest as it looked at the cradle, the inside edge that Kuiil was beginning to pad with layers of fabric. “It will be much softer now. Perhaps encourage you to take longer naps?” The child gave a disgruntled sound. “No, perhaps you’re right.”

The child sat down to watch, utterly fascinated as Kuiil continued his work. Boba had nearly fallen asleep, when a jerk to his ankle startled him awake again; the child yanking his shoelaces enthusiastically as it pointed at one of the two fabric pieces Kuiil held up for it, to presumably choose the color it preferred, picking the green over the red.

“Good choice,” Boba mumbled; he still could hear Cara’s voice up in the cockpit, though he couldn’t make out the words. He hoped she didn’t plan to stay long after they’d left Nevarro, though he knew it was selfish to be worried about that when she was here, risking her life to help them; she was _good,_ she was loyal and committed to making things right in the galaxy even in this small way, and Boba was hoping she’d _leave._ He just – he just wanted to be able to go near Din again, without feeling self-conscious.

“Do you know, why you are able to follow a better path now?” It took Boba a moment to realize Kuiil was speaking to him instead of the child.

“I… don’t know?”

“It is clear to me.”

When Kuiil didn’t elaborate, Boba moved closer to the end of the bed, the child grumbling and following his shoelaces when Boba moved his foot. “Could you… tell me? If it’s clear to you?” He kept his voice low, afraid Cara might hear him, pleading for any kind of answer about himself. She’d probably laugh.

Kuiil straightened from his work with the cradle, fixed Boba with a long look. “Your choice to have companions,” he said simply. “It is hard to stay on a path for goodness alone. It is your attachments that keep you on that path. When I heard about you before, you always worked alone.” The unusual word choice gave Boba pause – _attachments,_ just like his father had called others. _The bounty hunter is free of attachments,_ he’d said, and expected his clone son to somehow have the strong sense of identity it would have taken, to live a life empty of other people.

Maybe if he’d said this instead, if he’d said that attachments could have helped guide Boba through the tough parts – if Boba had had anything to cling to besides his dissolving identity, if there was anyone who could have looked at him and reminded him who he was in the moments when he desperately needed to be told that he mattered, if he could have been something _to_ other people, then maybe it would have gotten him through the roughest parts. Boba still didn’t know what it meant to be a clone besides being nothing, but if he could also be a – a husband, a father, just _wanting_ to be those things made him something.

 _I’ll tell you what you are,_ Din had said on Tatooine, when Boba struggled to see himself as anything at all. And the way Din described him promised that Boba was something, made Boba realize that there was more he wanted for himself.

“I have spoken,” Kuiil said, and Boba nodded in silence; the child was absorbed in tying his boot laces into knots, and Boba could just barely hear Din’s deep voice from up in the cockpit. _The bounty hunter is free of attachments,_ his father had said, but with Din and the child, Boba felt for the first time free to define himself as something other than a clone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added this fic to a series!! since it's the alternate POV to 'the way home' they're now in a series together, so in case you've made it this far without knowing about The Way Home, it'll be easier to find now :)))

“I hate not knowing what’ll happen.”

Din’s voice was quiet, low. Boba sat up in the passenger seat, but Din was looking out the viewscreen, turned away from him. He’d been silent for a long time, but his words were heavy, like he’d been carrying them through the entire silence. “That we can have a plan, but not know if it’ll fit into what they’re going to do.”

They’d gone over the plan with the others already; Boba hated it, but could see no alternatives. Din, Cara and Kuiil had to take the child without him. Karga would never think that Din had stayed with Boba, and if he never saw Boba, he’d never learn the truth. There was no point to showing their hand so early, so Boba would stay apart, like a cheater’s ace, until later.

“I can tell you what’ll happen,” Boba said, reluctant. He knew betrayal, knew tricks, knew all the weaknesses they bore that Din either couldn’t or didn’t want to see. “It’s a setup. There’s only so many ways to do a setup.”

“Yeah?” Din turned in his seat, fidgeting with his hands between his spread knees as he watched Boba. “Tell me.”

“How I would have done it,” Boba said, swallowed. He was mostly certain Din wouldn’t think he was capable of betrayal again, even if he laid out every weakness he’d seen. “Well – I’d tell you the false plan. With specifics, like we’re on the same team. I’d show how confident I am that we trust each other. You _want_ to think he won’t betray you,” Boba said, voice falling to a mumble despite himself, unable to phrase it like _he_ was the one doing the betraying anymore. He couldn’t, he couldn’t. “He knows you wouldn’t believe it until the very last moment.”

Din nodded, still silent. Boba wanted to see his face, to know the way Din looked at him. Boba watched the anxious movements of Din’s gloved hands, and it felt like seeing Din’s expression. He was nervous, worried, it was written all over him.

“He’ll do things like set up camp together. Sleep in front of you. Talk to you like you’ve already had your name cleared. He’s going to sound like he completely understands what’s going on, and that you can trust his plan because he’s already figured out the hard parts for you.” Boba paused. “He’ll say ‘trust me.’ They always say that. People who you trust never need to say that.”

Always, always, people said that. Ventress said _trust me, this is the right thing to do,_ and then she choked him and locked him in a trunk. _We don’t need the Mandalorians,_ his father had said, _trust me, we’re better off on our own._ Din had never said it. He’d offered Boba his hand, kept coming back for him, spoke to him gently and touched him like he deserved softness, and Boba trusted him.

“The only times to kill you are night, or right outside the town. Not in between. People are always on their guard the most in between where you start and where you’re going.” Boba heard the guilt rising in his voice. He’d done this before. People expected it, in between waypoints. Boba would have chosen the moment before arrival – the appearance of the town would be a distraction, cause a new wave of anxiety about what was about to happen, and that would have been when Boba killed his target. “He won’t be able to do it in broad daylight, I’m sure he’ll do it at night. And then, when you kill anyone with him before they can kill you, he’s still going to act like you’re on the same team. He’ll downplay how many troopers there are with the Client – he’ll say three, probably, just enough that you’ll feel like you have to keep Karga alive to deal with them. And he’ll betray you,” Boba said, and it hurt to tell Din so, to tell him that what he’d once been so hurt by would happen again. “There’ll be a point where it feels like he’s stopped, and that will be when it really happens.”

Din was quiet, and the way he fidgeted with his hands made Boba gesture nervously as he spoke, mostly to keep himself from reaching for Din to still his tiny, anxious movements, to comfort him. “He’ll try to kill you at night first, though,” Boba said. His chest constricted, thinking of sleeping beside Din in his bed. “Promise me you won’t fall asleep.”

“I promise,” Din said. He stopped fidgeting, reached over to squeeze Boba’s hand gently, just for a second. “Not until I’m back with you.”

The wait that had once seemed endless started to go by faster and faster; all too soon, they were landing on Nevarro, even though Boba wasn’t ready, even though he was anxious to begin and dreading doing so.

 _I could come with you,_ Boba kept wanting to beg. He hated the plan; he knew it was the right plan, but he hated it, hated it. He was going to be split up from Din, and that was wrong. _I could come with you,_ he kept forcing back. He’d been involved in making the plan this time, but it still felt like being left on the outside, when his part was to leave them.

He wasn’t going to fall apart, wasn’t going to ruin the plan, but when Karga was making his way across the lava fields towards the ship and Boba was living out the last few moments before everything began, Boba wanted to claw his way backwards. He’d never cared about beginning jobs before, never felt even a moment of nervousness, because even death didn’t scare him when he had nothing.

“I could come with you.” He forced the words out, because other words threatened to spill easily: _don’t make me leave you_ and _everything is so important now and what if we lose it._ He wanted to reach for Din and never let go, confess that as they got closer and closer to the time about to happen, Boba was growing so scared. He’d at least managed to stop pacing, but it was just because Din had come to the cargo hold, and watching him kept Boba still.

“We need you to come later.” Din’s voice was gentle. He’d looked over his shoulder at Boba, preoccupied with trying to climb onto one of the blurrgs, but had paused, for him. “It’ll be okay until then.”

“I know.” Boba stepped forward to catch Din’s foot and help him upward, onto the blurrg. “I should be with you guys, though,” he murmured. It felt like too bold a statement to make, but he didn’t have to deserve it to want it this badly. “Din,” he started, but the rest of the words didn’t come. _What if something happens to you, to the child, what if I’m not there?_ He kept his hand on Din’s ankle, couldn’t make himself let go.

“He’s got two guards with him,” Cara’s voice hit Boba like cold water, and he let go of Din, stepped back from the blurrg.

“We’ll be okay,” Din said, and Boba crossed his arms over his chest, tried so hard to believe that he wasn’t about to lose everything, all at once. Was this what it was like, for everyone else? Having things at stake? _But if you’re gone,_ Boba wanted to beg, _I’ll be here, still in love with you, and what then?_ “I’ll keep the little one safe,” Din promised, but what about _him?_ Boba knew Din would die for the child, but who would die for Din if Boba wasn’t there?

“I know.” Boba stepped over to the cradle, reached in to pet the child’s ear with a fingertip. “Bye, kid,” he whispered, the child whimpering up at him. “See you soon.” He leaned down to kiss the top of the child’s head, the child whining like it knew this was something different. “Din’s going to take care of you, and I’ll see you guys later to help him. I’ll always come back for you guys, because I love you. You promise to remember that?”

The child nodded, and it whimpered in protest when Boba stepped away from its cradle. There was something about the plan that Boba didn’t like – although that wasn’t it, not exactly. If there was something he didn’t like, he could have told Din. More accurately, there was something that made him anxious, made him feel sick with dread and fear, and he couldn’t _trust_ that feeling. That was just – just the way he _was_ now, liable to become hysterical when faced with things that hadn’t bothered him before. Hearing that Imperials wanted the child made him panicky just because it made him think of his other dealings with the Empire, and where it had led him. It wasn’t related, he just made connections that weren’t there. The pit with the mudhorn hadn’t housed a Sarlacc, and still Boba had been incapacitated by hysterical fear; this was the same.

They left the ship without him, and it felt like being forgotten. Boba paced as he waited, IG-11 a placid, still companion he kept forgetting was there. The plan was for Boba and IG-11 to leave the ship as soon as possible, take an alternate route to town and then setup an escape route. And then, then Boba would see Din and the child again. He only had to make it to that part, and then everything would be fine.

“I am a nurse droid,” IG-11 said, as Boba was pacing back and forth. “And as such, I am equipped to analyze your behavior.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the verdict?”

“Anxiety.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Boba pulled himself up the ladder to the cockpit, crept towards the viewscreen and peered out; no sign of Karga anymore, and no sign of Din and the others. Boba returned to the cargo hold, released the ramp. “Let’s go,” he told IG-11, who followed him obediently.

It wasn’t unbearable, in the daytime. Boba had mapped out the route they would take, and IG-11 plodded along beside him as they crossed lava fields, cutting across further out of the way to avoid being seen by the others. Almost as soon as they had left the ship, IG-11 had reported that they were adjacent to the nesting grounds for some native animal, and then informed him that the temperature was set to drop three degrees over the course of the next hour.

“Keep me updated,” Boba had said, and then paused, added, “seriously. Just keep talking.”

It felt nothing like Tatooine, when the silence was constantly being filled by IG-11’s droning voice. Boba had always liked droids – they were almost-companions who had no clue what he was and wouldn’t have the ability to understand what it meant even if they did.

They kept going after nightfall for a few hours, just to be sure they were moving at a faster pace than the other group. When Boba was ready to stop, though, IG-11 protested.

“We cannot stay here,” it said, “the creatures whose nesting grounds we passed will be hunting here overnight, as they are nocturnal. We must take shelter in a safer area.” An ominous flapping sound from high overhead accompanied his words.

“Alright, fine,” Boba said, “where?”

“Please follow me,” IG-11 turned to its right, led Boba towards the ravine they’d been walking along. It sloped downwards, further and further, until they were facing the opposite wall of the ravine, and –

“No,” Boba said, took a step backwards as soon as he spotted it. “Forget it.” The ravine wall was marred by a deep crevice leading to a cave, and IG-11 stood at the mouth of it, waiting expectantly for him.

“Your chances of survival are very low on flat ground,” IG-11 told him. Boba forced himself forward, but his heart was starting to race again, that sick, uneasy feeling reaching up to drag him downwards. If he died out here, in some stupid fucking animal attack, Din would be waiting for him and Boba would never come for him. Boba followed IG-11 past the mouth of the cave, further, further, breathing growing more ragged as he went, and it was getting harder and harder to keep going. When he looked back, the darkness outside made the entrance indistinguishable, and it was the Sarlacc again, it was dark and endless and there was no way out –

“I can’t,” he gasped, stumbled, backing up until his back hit a wall, and he couldn’t tell anymore which way was forward and which was back, and it was dark and dark and he would _die here –_ he bent over with his head in his hands, heart racing wildly, sweating and trembling and weak-kneed, vaguely aware he was sliding down the wall until he was curled at the bottom of it, sobbing with his head on his knees. Din was going to _need him_ and Boba was here, he was never getting out of here, he’d fallen back in and he would die like this, for a thousand years, Din would be waiting and Boba was _dying._

“This is a safe place to stay,” IG-11’s robotic voice barely reached Boba. 

“It’s not, it’s not, I want to get _out,_ please, I want to get out –” All he could feel was the dizzy, choking hysteria, chest so tight it hurt, and it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t, nothing was.

“You are having a panic attack,” IG-11 came to stand in front of him, knelt down. “I am going to remove your helmet.”

Boba didn’t stop the droid, though he wasn’t sure if having it off was better or worse, the darkness somehow more and less all-encompassing, the sound of his breathing harsher to his ears. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t escape, Din was out there somewhere but Boba was going to die here, slowly, so slowly, because he was _nothing,_ because he was going to hurt for a thousand years because he was nothing, nothing, nothing –

“Please focus on your breathing,” IG-11 said, but Boba couldn’t, couldn’t. “Breathe in for five seconds. Breathe out for five seconds.”

It felt like a long time, before Boba could regain enough control to manage even that, IG-11 repeating itself placidly the entire time. Boba covered his face with his hands, drew in a shaking breath, exhaled as slowly as he could manage. He did it over and over, IG-11 counting to five again and again, its voice quiet and constant. Boba tried to focus on it, the predictable “one.. two… three… four… five” over and over.

“Perhaps we should stay closer to the cave entrance,” IG-11 said, when Boba was able to lift his head, breathing slowed to a rate closer to normal. 

“Perhaps,” Boba managed, voice hoarse. He wanted to beg to leave, to be anywhere else, but there was nothing he could do. He struggled to his feet, followed IG-11 back towards the mouth of the cave; it wasn’t even that far, a difference of maybe twenty feet. Boba had gotten only twenty feet before he completely fell apart. Din was out there, preparing to kill someone in the moments before they killed him, and Boba was going into hysterics over being in the dark.

“I’m fine,” Boba said sharply, when IG-11 kept looking at him, like it was waiting to detect a signal he was about to break down again.

“Analysis of your voice indicates that you are feeling distressed.” The absurdity of IG-11’s statement made Boba bark out a laugh.

“You could say that.” He felt like he’d only barely backed away from the edge of hysterical panic, and all because he’d walked a few feet into a stupid cave. “I’ll be fine, okay? I promise. I can’t fall apart,” he said, tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe if he wasn’t looking at the cave, he could forget it was there. “He needs me to show up for him. He saved my life, the least I can do is not… not incapacitate myself because I’m afraid of the dark.”

“I do not believe this is a response to the dark.”

“I know.” It wasn’t just the dark. It was where the dark had been, where he could find himself, if he couldn’t see where he was.

“It is safe to sleep here,” IG-11 told him, “I do not sleep, so if you have another panic attack, I will be available for support.”

“I won’t have another,” Boba mumbled, as though that were at all up to him. So that was what the droid was calling it, then, a panic attack; it felt like a fitting term, because that was how he felt, _panicked,_ taken out by it like he was being attacked. Having a name for it wasn’t much help. “How… how do I make them stop?” he asked quietly. He _needed_ this to stop.

“You can learn to change your thought patterns to circumvent them,” IG-11 replied matter-of-factly, which sounded nearly impossible. “Management of stress. Relaxation techniques. Exposure to the stimulus that causes them.” Boba snorted.

“Great. I’ll just go hang out in caves, meditating.” It was hopeless; he’d be like this forever, incapable of the simplest fucking things. Changing thought patterns? He’d been controlled by thought patterns he couldn’t change for his whole life. This felt inevitable, like his life had just been waiting to catch up with him and bring him to his knees. He’d been careening forward for years, stumbling, and finally, he’d fallen.

“Your tone indicates you are being sarcastic, but that would be an excellent approach if incorporated into a gradual technique.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Boba crossed his arms over his chest, shifted against the rocky wall. “Don’t… tell the others about this.”

“If I tell the Mandalorian what techniques you need to work on, he can assist you.”

“Especially don’t tell him,” Boba said. “I can take care of this myself, okay? He’s got enough to worry about.”

“You are a thing he worries about,” IG-11 said, and Boba opened his eyes just to glare at the droid. The dark mouth of the cave behind the droid made him shiver, and he closed his eyes again.

“I know.” Din was so gentle with him, and it was surely fueled by a deep-seated concern, for this legend he’d found dying, too broken to have ever been put together solidly in the first place. “Wake me up as soon as it’s light out,” Boba said, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly enough that it would be necessary.

Din was out there, had promised not to sleep until he was safely beside Boba again, was waiting for someone to try and kill him, and Boba could think about nothing else. Was it good for anything, being a legend, when he couldn’t use it to warn the entire galaxy _don’t hurt him, he’s mine, never hurt him._

They were too late.

Everything had been going according to plan, right up until the moment Boba realized that somewhere along the line, it had gone off the rails, had been traveling steadily downward for some time and had picked up too much speed to be stopped now. He’d been oblivious, had made it all the way to the town with IG-11 and was in the process of finding one of the underground entrances Din had told him to look for, when IG-11 intercepted a radio transmission from the Stormtroopers that were swarming around the buildings.

It was already too late.

From the moment Boba heard that Stormtroopers had been dispatched to get the child – his child, _his child_ – he hadn’t stopped moving. It had been a headlong dive into motion, and he hadn’t even been able to make it all the way to the end. He never got to Kuiil. Kuiil was out there somewhere, far ahead, had been intercepted and had the child taken from him, and Boba got to the Stormtroopers only on their way back to the town.

There were two of them; they were sitting astride speeders out on the edge of town, and Boba watched them from behind a cluster of rocks, IG-11 waiting on him for instruction.

“Wait here,” Boba whispered through clenched teeth. He hated Stormtroopers already, fucking – clone-trooper lookalikes that they were, a mockery of them. As far as he was concerned, they were all assholes who chose to look like clones, like that wasn’t the worst fate of all. Boba had always burned with fury at the sight of them, would be left thinking of the hundreds and hundreds of clone troopers who he was an exact copy of, and these two were no different, with matching white helmets and no understanding of what it would be like to actually be a copy of another soldier.

“Any update yet?” one trooper said into a comlink.

“That’s a negative,” a voice replied, “still waiting on confirmation. He just killed an officer for interrupting him, so this might take a while.”

“Thank you. Standing by still,” the trooper sighed, “unbelievable.”

“Hey,” the other said, “how long has it been since that thing moved?” Immediately, Boba tensed, but the trooper who had the child stuffed into a pack was shrugging.

“I don’t know, like a minute or two. Don’t worry.”

“It’s been way longer than a minute. Shouldn’t we check and see if it’s still alive? You hit it pretty hard.”

Boba snarled under his breath, fingers tightening around the handle of his blaster as he forced himself not to react. But – they’d _hit it?_ His _baby?_

“The child is fine,” IG-11 said very quietly. “My scans indicate the child is in perfect health.” Boba nodded, leaned around the rocks again, just as one of the Stormtroopers let out a wail of pain.

“It bit me!” he howled, and while he was jumping backwards, hand raised to punch the bag with the child in it, Boba leapt forward.

“Hey!” he roared, and both troopers whipped towards him. And thank fuck, his reputation was still good for something, because the Stormtroopers froze, immediately shaking with fear.

“Is that Boba Fett?” one squeaked, “what the fuck, what the fuck –”

“The thing’s probably got a bounty!” the other hissed, the one holding the child. Boba started towards them, blaster in his hand but not bothering to point it at them. White-hot fury raced through him, when he saw the child peering out from the bag, its tiny hands reaching towards him.

“Don’t move,” Boba looked between the two troopers, spun his blaster and gestured towards the town. “What, were you two the least expendable of the whole expendable army?”

“The Moff just arrived,” the first babbled out, “he’ll find out you –”

“And what?” Boba snorted. “Avenge your deaths? Who the fuck do you think you are?” The Moff, he’d said, and Boba hadn’t ever thought through who would likely be looking for the child, because it hadn’t seemed to matter, but he could put together a pretty good guess. “Gideon?” he said, and the way they quaked with fear told him he was right. So it was the same man who had hired him to go to Mustafar, to kill the admiral who must have opposed whatever plan Gideon was putting into play. It didn’t feel like an important detail, all these people in power in the Empire were the same, like their motivation morphed them into the same thing; it had always brought Boba a sadistic sort of pleasure to note that, a clone watching men succumb to a depersonalizing, identity-robbing force.

“I thought you were dead,” the other trooper said, which Boba thought was awfully bold considering he was the one currently holding Boba’s child captive.

“Me too,” Boba said, “but unfortunately for all of us, here I am.”

“Ba!” the child contributed, as though protesting that it was, for one, very happy to see him. The troopers looked down at it in confusion.

“Does it, uh…. Know you?” the first trooper asked. The child continued to blow Boba’s cover, reaching for him eagerly, nearly tipping itself out of the bag, starting to make complaining sounds when Boba didn’t immediately move to pick it up.

“Ba! Ba, ba, ba!” the child whined, starting to work itself up to wailing. “ _Ba?!”_

“Wait a second,” Boba told the child, to a perplexed head tilt from the first trooper. Boba didn’t miss it when the trooper holding the child started to inch his hand towards his comlink, and Boba reacted quickly; he shot the other trooper, and when his body dropped to the ground, the one holding the child froze.

“Enough of this shit,” Boba snarled, raising the blaster again. “Gideon’s here for that kid. How many of you are there?”

“Uh. Uh. A lot,” the trooper babbled, hands raising in surrender. “And – an E-web! Everyone’s talking about it!”

“Well aren’t you the bearer of good news. Give me the kid and I’ll let you live.” He wouldn’t. The trooper clearly couldn’t tell, though, because he was quick to wiggle out of the strap of the bag and hand the child over to Boba with shaking hands. Before he’d even had a chance to fully let go, Boba shot him, and he crumpled. The child hiccupped a little sob.

“I’m sorry,” Boba murmured, tucking it against his chest, “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Ba,” the child whimpered, managed to give him a petulant look. Boba sighed, holstered his blaster and wrapped both arms around the child, rocking it slightly.

“We gotta go,” he told IG-11 as it approached, “they have more artillery than we expected, and, well. Everything that comes with that.” The urgency, the desperation; the fact that they would kill Din without hesitation if he didn’t have the child and wasn’t useful to them anymore.

They took the Stormtroopers’ speeders, and already in town, there were Stormtroopers gathered in the pavilion, circling a small building. At the center of them was Gideon. When Boba’s viewplate zoomed in helpfully, he could see first Cara inside the building, leaning around a wall to look out the wide window. And then, across from her, Din. Alive, perfectly okay, and Boba could suddenly breathe so much easier.

“Stay here with the kid,” Boba told IG-11, to complaining sounds from the child. Boba lifted his helmet up enough that he could kiss the top of the child’s head, and then he left their hiding spot in the alleyway. There was only one way to go in, when he wasn’t powerful enough to take on everyone.

He strode right into the pavilion, past the rows of silent, shocked Stormtroopers, right up to Gideon. The jangling of his spurs was the only sound in the clearing; Boba had always wanted everyone in earshot to immediately know who he was, but it didn’t seem to matter in the same way, anymore.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Boba said to Gideon, who barely tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Boba Fett. Have you come to offer your services? I’m afraid you know that my confidence in you is not at an all-time high.”

“You can’t get him without me.” A tiny movement drew his attention to the building: Din, watching him. An entire army focused on Din; Boba’s heart was racing already. _Not him, not him,_ he wanted to beg. “Haven’t you heard that you need a Mandalorian to catch a Mandalorian? You can’t do it without me.”

“I’m sure you aren’t more effective than an entire army of Stormtroopers.” Gideon sounded nearly scornful, and Boba couldn’t blame him. He’d sent the best bounty hunter in the galaxy to kill someone, and it had resulted in failure. Had almost been the job that _killed_ the best bounty hunter in the galaxy. No wonder he was looking at Boba like he was a joke.

“Unless you want him alive,” Boba said, “and from what I’ve seen of the kid, it’ll be a lot more cooperative if you bring in the Mandalorian alive with it. If not,” he shrugged, “well, you know as well as I do what its kind is capable of.”

“I see.” Gideon clasped his hands behind his back, studying Boba. “Come with me.” He led Boba into one of the buildings off the courtyard; it wasn’t hard to tell, that he didn’t think much of Boba anymore. He didn’t even bother to make it look like a meeting, just stood there in the threshold and frowned at Boba. “I fail to see why you think you should have any involvement with this.”

“Hey, I don’t see anyone else volunteering to do it.”

“And why would _you_ volunteer, exactly?” Gideon asked, and Boba forced a nonchalant shrug.

“Consider this my audition to get back on the call list,” Boba said, and Gideon studied him for a long moment, but then he nodded.

Boba left through the back door; almost as soon as it closed behind him, he could hear a commotion starting in the courtyard, shouting voices. IG-11 waited in the alleyway where Boba had left him, the child still safe in its arms.

“They have found the bodies of the two Stormtroopers you killed,” IG-11 informed him.

“Open fire!” Gideon’s voice thundered through the noise.

“C’mon,” Boba sprinted for the entrance to the sewers, a door at the end of the alleyway that led to stairs downward. IG-11 followed close behind, as Boba led the way through the damp corridors, took two turns in quick succession and found the grate easily; he could hear blasterfire ricocheting in the building above, even as IG-11 wrenched open the grate.

“Hey!” Karga’s voice, as Boba hauled himself up through the open grate after IG-11. “Guys! Guys, it’s-”

“Save it,” Boba snapped, “I’m here to help. Where’s –” The door to the courtyard swung open, and Cara stumbled through it amidst heavy fire against the exterior wall, and with her was– was Din, barely standing upright, Cara dragging him out of the line of fire. 

“What happened to him?!” Boba’s fear ratcheted up immediately – it was _Din,_ something was wrong, something was horribly wrong, the Stormtroopers were firing on the building and Din had been _hurt._

“Kid’s okay,” Din said faintly, and his voice sounded wrong, pained and hoarse. Cara lowered him to the floor and Boba dove forward, dropped to his knees in front of Din and started frantically checking him for injuries. He was okay just a few minutes ago, he’d been fine _,_ and it was like the ground had been ripped out from under their feet, sent them reeling, Din _wasn’t okay_ anymore _._

“You’ll be fine,” Cara was saying, although Din _wasn’t fine,_ he was breathing shallowly and barely moving, and Boba’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest, hands shaking as he looked for where Din had been shot. “We should – let’s go, we should just get moving, and you’ll be okay.”

There was blood. There was so much blood, Boba touched the back of Din’s neck and his hand came away dripping in it. “No,” he whispered, “Din, Din –” He had to be fine, he _had to be,_ he was too good, too gentle, to –

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” Din said quietly, and everything suddenly went still for Boba. Cara’s voice continued in the background, and she was reaching for Din’s helmet, her words unintelligible to Boba as he stared at Din and tried to think of anything he could do, _anything,_ to save him. 

“ _No.”_ Din pushed Cara’s hand away, but they had to help him, they had to do _something,_ he was going to bleed to death, he was _going to die._ “Just – make sure the kid’s safe.” Din reached to squeeze Boba’s wrist gently, and Boba’s breathing hitched. “You guys need more help. Take the kid to the covert, they’ll help you.”

“They won’t,” Boba whispered. “Not if it’s me, we need _you,_ Din –” Boba _needed him._ He couldn’t raise the kid by himself, he was just a clone, he wasn’t _good,_ not like Din, and Din couldn’t leave them.

“Here,” Din reached beneath his armor and pulled off a necklace with the mythosaur emblem hanging from it. “Give them that. They’ll know it’s mine, because, you’re mine.”

 _I am yours,_ Boba wanted to promise him, couldn’t find the words, wanted to fall apart, to beg and plead not to lose Din. Anything but Din.

“We can make it,” Cara was insisting, the necklace in her trembling hands, and Din so still, so unnaturally still.

“I’m not gonna make it, and you know it,” Din said, and then the room exploded into fire. But it didn’t matter, it didn’t _matter,_ Din was dying, and Boba was _losing him._ “I can hold them back long enough for you to escape,” Din told him, “take the kid. Don’t let me die not knowing you’re both okay.”

Boba kept shaking his head no, trying to find the words for something too big to hold in his hands. How could he convince Din to take off his helmet, how could he possibly save Din? Boba _had to save him._

“We’re not _leaving you,”_ Cara yelled, and for once, Boba agreed with her, because how could they leave Din, how could they _lose_ Din? Everything was wrong, Din was sprawled on the floor and bleeding and Boba struggled to tamp down on the helpless whimper rising in his throat, the plea not to lose Din.

“This is the way,” Din said, and Boba’s grip on the back of Din’s neck tightened. Din was a Mandalorian, followed their Creed, but how could they live with themselves, for allowing this to happen? How could Din die because he wasn’t allowed to show his face to anyone? How could Boba have finally fallen in love with the best man he would ever, ever know – and the Mandalorians were going to imprison him within a Creed that allowed this to happen?

“It’s not _my_ way,” Boba finally found his voice, but it came out a snarl, because he was _angry_ with them. The Mandalorians had never let him have anything, and now they were _taking_ Din from him. They couldn’t have him.

The door banged open, but before Boba could even look over his shoulder, there was a rush of flames, an explosion outward, and Karga was shouting something indistinct.

“Go,” Din whispered, and Cara looked from him to Boba for direction. 

“Take the kid,” Boba told her. Cara grabbed the child off the ground, hugged it to her chest.

“Promise me you’ll bring him,” she said to Boba, “I _know_ you need him, so promise me.” All Boba could do was nod, because yes, _yes,_ he needed Din, he would die without Din, and he wasn’t going to let this happen. Everything he’d ever done didn’t matter, not in the face of this, nothing was as important as this.

“Din,” Boba let go of Din long enough to unlatch his own helmet, toss it aside. “You can’t just die because you’re not allowed to take off the helmet, okay? You can’t,” he pleaded. A sob rose in his chest, and he would have done anything, would have told Din _everything,_ if he thought it would help. If it mattered, he would tell Din he loved him, if it could convince Din to break his Creed.

“It’s forbidden,” Din rasped out, “no living thing has seen me without it since I swore the creed. It _matters.”_

“Why? So no one knows you? I already know everything,” Boba said, voice shaking, “what does it matter if I see your face? It’s just me. I already know. _Din,_ I already know.” Already knew, already loved him, what did it _matter_ if Boba saw his face? Boba loved him so much already.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t just die. You can’t just – just stop me from dying and then go and die yourself!” Hysteria was starting to well up, spilling over, because Din was sounding fainter and fainter, because Boba was _losing him._ How could he have lived just to lose the only man he’d ever loved? What was the fucking _point,_ he should have died on Mustafar, because maybe that would have saved Din, too. 

“You didn’t even want me to help you,” Din said, “you said you didn’t need –”

“I was wrong!” Boba’s words hitched. “I thought I didn’t need to keep living, but then you came for me, and you can’t make me do this alone.” He rubbed at his face with one hand, glanced over his shoulder at the encroaching flames, the troopers still outside. “Din, please. _Din._ I’m not letting them take you from me,” he begged, felt dangerously close to breaking down in hysterical sobs. “Not even if it is their Creed.” How could they take so fucking _much_ from him? He knew he was a clone, that he didn’t deserve to be one of them, but why did their Creed have to be this way? They didn’t even understand, they weren’t clones, it didn’t _matter_ if anyone saw their faces, and now Din, his perfect, gentle Din who was unique in the galaxy even if everyone knew his face, Din was going to die because of it.

“Fine,” Din said. Boba’s breathing stuttered on a sob of relief, and he reached for Din’s helmet immediately, fingers fumbling with the clasp before he managed to take it off. It was a moment that should have been quiet, intimate, shouldn’t have happened under such duress, and Boba wanted desperately not to have forced Din’s hand, but _oh,_ oh, Boba had to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from crying. Din had the sweetest brown eyes he’d ever seen, he was looking at Boba with such open concern, and Boba loved him, _loved_ him.

Boba scrambled for the bacta spray, applied it with shaking hands. Din’s hair was matted with blood, but his hair was dark and curling and mussed; his breath came in shallow gasps, full lips parted. Boba wanted to collapse, sob into Din’s chest for how close he’d come to losing Din, for how heartbreaking his face was.

“So was Cara right?” Din wheezed, and how had Boba lived without hearing his voice like this? Without the modulator, without anything distorting it, and it was deep and rumbling, and Boba choked on a whimper. “Good-looking enough to justify everything?”

As if Boba could have come up with a coherent answer; he was finally seeing the face of the man he loved, and despite never knowing it, it was somehow perfectly right. Din’s eyes were the perfect shade of brown, his expression the perfect mix of concerned and hopeful, the arch of his nose and the line of his jaw _perfect._ Tears welled in Boba’s eyes at the thought of never getting to see it again, at how close he’d come to losing Din just minutes ago.

“Din,” Boba managed, voice breaking. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Din’s face, wanted to memorize it in case he was never allowed to see it again, reached tentatively to touch Din’s cheek. “I’m not letting you die, okay? You’re not leaving me and our kid, we’d never make it without you. I don’t _want_ to.”

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, and that was how it had always been supposed to sound, that deep, that gentle. Boba would never survive without him, he was the whole point, with him the galaxy made _sense,_ the way Boba felt about him such a life-changing force that everything he’d had to go through to find Din had been _worth it._ Boba didn’t feel like a clone when he was with Din. He just felt like a man hopelessly in love, and it was the first time he could live with himself.


	15. Chapter 15

It was hard to watch Din put his helmet back on. Boba had to bite back a whimpering protest, the return of the helmet reminding him that he’d made Din break his Creed, that he wasn’t _supposed_ to see Din’s face. As much as he loved seeing Din, that was something the Mandalorians didn’t want Boba to have – another thing they’d taken from him, the privilege of seeing the face of the man he loved, something he’d never realized was possible to lose. And Din didn’t _say_ anything as he did it; one moment, Boba was looking down and the next, Din was putting it back on without warning, and Boba didn’t know what to make of it. Did Din not understand what it meant to Boba, the heartbreaking privilege of it? Maybe he just wanted it to stop as soon as possible, like breaking the Creed was worse the longer it went on. Boba rocked back on his heels, drew in a breath, bit back a plea of _just one more moment?_

“Feel okay to walk?” Boba managed, helping Din to his feet, and Din grunted in pain. He let Boba keep holding on to him, at least, supporting Din’s weight as they traveled through the corridors in the sewers below the building. Din’s weight against Boba’s side was comforting, at least – he was still alive, still here, and Boba could take the smallest step back from the edge of panic. Boba clung to him maybe too tightly, but he couldn’t convince himself to ease up; he couldn’t think about it, how close he’d come to losing Din. It was almost possible to push past, when Din was so clearly here, solid and leaning in to him, breathing harshly and giving Boba quiet directions through the corridors. He was here, he was here –

“I knew it!” Cara’s voice told Boba they’d finally caught up with the others. “You’re not just dying on us, moron.” The child slept in her arms, and another frantic piece of Boba’s heart calmed enough that it could keep beating.

“Hey,” Din lifted his head, “What – what about Kuiil? Was he – did you guys – ” Because Din was _good,_ because he cared so deeply about each and every person with them, because Boba had failed him and let one of them die.

“Is he okay?” Cara asked, quiet.

“Me and IG-11 found the Stormtroopers that took the kid from him,” Boba forced out, “We were already here, and when we heard the troopers had been dispatched to intercept him – we were too late. We were just barely too late. We have to keep going, okay?” Boba hoisted Din up a little more, and Din nodded, though there was a pained resignation to it.

“Up to the left,” Din told him, and Boba followed the others, tried to focus on the few things that were bearable – Din leaning in to him, arm heavy across Boba’s shoulders, his voice as he guided them through several more turns.

Boba only knew something was wrong when he felt Din go tense. Up ahead – a pile of Mandalorian helmets, and Din gave a pained little sound, pulled out of Boba’s grip and dropped heavily to one knee before them. He picked up a helmet in his hands, staring down at it, shoulders rising and falling with his heaving breaths.

It was like watching a memory. The helmet in Din’s hands, the sorrowful, protective curl of his shoulders, the shaking of his breath – Boba was back on Genosis, sinking to his knees with his father’s helmet in his hands, absolutely nothing left.

“Did the Guild do this?” Din was staggering to his feet so quickly that Boba had to grab for him to steady him, Din moving out of his grip and rounding on Karga, “did you do this?!” And hadn’t Boba done the same, looked for someone to blame, needing to understand, but it hadn’t _mattered._

“No! When you left the system and took the prize, the fighting ended,” Karga was backing up, hands raised, “the hunters just melted away. The fighting _ended.”_

“It was not his fault.” The Armorer appeared in the doorway, a floating cart following. Boba shrank back at the sight of her, like she could tell just from looking at him that she’d made a Mandalorian break his Creed, that Boba hadn’t been satisfied being the shame of the Mandalorians but also had to hurt one of their own, make him break the Creed. Boba couldn’t stop looking at the pile of helmets, wanted to plead with the faceless Mandalorians who had rejected him, _how didn’t you see? I’d just lost so much, I needed you, I needed something,_ and it was to feel the same thing again, backing away from the Armorer and wanting to plead _how could you try and take him from me?_

“We revealed ourselves. We knew what could happen if we left the covert. The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter. This is what resulted.”

“Did any survive?” Din asked; as Boba backed up, he was inching forward, surely drawn to the safety of the Armorer and the home she represented for him.

“I hope so. Some may have escaped off-world.”

“Come with us,” Din said, sounded like he already knew the answer, resigned to it but clinging to anything he could reach. 

“No. I will not abandon this place until I have salvaged what remains.” She resumed picking up pieces of armor and adding them to her cart. Boba ached to go to Din, who looked unsteady on his feet, didn’t dare touch him in front of the Armorer. Boba had no right, had made Din break his Creed, and Din was following the Armorer before Boba could approach him anyways. All Boba could do was follow him, and he slipped into the room after them.

“Show me the one whose safety deemed such destruction,” the Armorer said, as she added pieces to the forge to melt. Cara stepped forward with the child, the child motionless as though it had used the Force. Boba must not even have seen it, felt a pang of guilt – his own child, and he hadn’t _noticed,_ but Din had been dying, and there was nothing else in the world.

“This is the one,” Din said. Boba fidgeted, looking back towards the pile of helmets again. He could _feel_ his father’s helmet in his hands, the exact heft of it, the sting of the wind on Genosis and the rocky ground beneath his knees. He’d almost lost Din, too, he’d almost _lost Din –_

Boba’s attention only returned to the Armorer and Din when the Armorer leaned in closer to see the child, still sleeping soundly in Cara’s arms. “It’s injured, but it’s not helpless,” Din was explaining, “Its species can move objects with its mind.”

“I know of such things. The songs of eons past tell us of battles between Mandalore the Great and an order of sorcerers called Jedi that fought with such powers.” She tilted her head, studying them. “I’m sure your companion knows our history, considering his father’s involvement.”

Boba said nothing, didn’t know how to say anything about it that wasn’t _they killed him, they took everything from me, everyone has always taken everything from me._ It hadn’t mattered that it was the Jedi, in the end. There was nothing Boba could actually call his own, he was a clone, he was _nothing,_ and he didn’t get to keep anything.

“Its kind were enemies,” the Armorer continued, “but this individual is not.”

“What is it?”

“A foundling. By Creed, it is in your care,” she said, and Boba flinched at the mention of the Creed. Could she tell, that he’d made Din break it? What did it mean, that he had? Din was still a Mandalorian, would always be one, but what had Boba taken from him? “You must reunite it with its own kind.”

“Where?”

“This, you must determine.”

“You expect me to search the galaxy for the home of this creature and deliver it to a race of enemy sorcerers?” Din asked, and the Armorer nodded.

“This is the way,” she said, and Boba’s hands curled into fists at the familiar phrase. Why was _this_ the way things had to go? Why was it their will that Din die because he couldn’t remove his helmet in front of anyone? How could they stand to let that happen?

“Hey,” Cara interjected, quite possibly the first time Boba had ever been grateful to hear her, “these tunnels will be lousy with Imps in a matter of minutes. We should at least discuss an escape plan.” Behind her, Karga was nodding in agreement from the doorway, already looking anxiously back up the corridor. IG-11 moved to join him in the hallway to stand guard, and Cara covered the child’s face with its blanket, tucking it closer against herself as she left for the hallway, her footsteps echoing.

“If you follow the descending tunnel,” The Armorer pointed towards the way they’d come, “it will lead you to the underground river. It flows downstream toward the lava flats.” She turned back to Din, and Boba took the opportunity to slink backwards, away from her. “You must go. A foundling is in your care. By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father. This is the Way. You have earned your Signet.”

Boba watcher her attach a signet to Din’s shoulderplate, a tiny mudhorn. From the day the child had saved Din, when Boba had almost lost Din for the first time, when Boba had watched Din walk into a cave and broken down completely, gripped with helpless fear. The first time he’d truly had to face what his life had done to him, how scared he could be with something to lose for the first time.

“You are a clan of two,” she said, and for all the things that had hurt Boba already, this – this was even worse, this was to lose another place he could have belonged all over again. Of course the Mandalorians wouldn’t consider him part of Din’s clan. He was a clone, he was _nothing,_ but he’d – he’d really wanted to belong here. Tears stung at his eyes, and he looked towards the door, wondered if he could leave without either of them hearing him, because if she said it one more time, Boba thought he might start sobbing. It wasn’t far off; already, he was blinking helpless tears down his cheeks, because _clan of two_ didn’t mean him.

“Three,” Din’s deep voice made Boba’s head snap up. “A clan of three.” Din turned to look at him, and Boba drew in a shaking breath, fought the fresh wave of tears.

“Yeah?” he whispers, voice quavering. It didn’t matter what the Mandalorians thought, because Din _wanted him._ Din thought Boba belonged, belonged to _him,_ and that was the only thing Boba needed.

The Armorer was talking, and it took Boba a while to focus on her voice, on anything but Din in front of him. She was carrying a jetpack, and Boba shook his head at the sight of it, abruptly ripped back to the present, to the farther past, being flung into the sky before the longest fall.

“When you have healed, you will begin your drills. Until you know it, it will not listen to your commands. The history we choose to join becomes our own,” she added, lifting her head to look at Boba over Din’s shoulder, “and I understand that jetpacks have not been an asset to your clan in the past. I trust this will be more successful.” Because – because Boba was part of Din’s clan, because his terrible history was being attached to it, and suddenly, Boba felt overly seen, felt like all anyone could see was the unfortunate past he was bringing.

“Can’t go worse,” Boba said, as the Armorer beckoned IG-11 over to carry the jetpack. Was that what being in a clan meant? Taking on a history? Why would Din want _his?_ Boba was a clone, Boba came from nothing but his own heartless, violent choices. 

Explosions in the hallway were met with blaster fire, and IG-11 was the first to rejoin Cara, though the ensuing silence said she didn’t need help just yet.

“More will come,” the Armorer reminded Din, “you must go. My place is here. Be safe on your journey.”

There was no time to pause. Boba wanted to, wanted to cling to Din and ask if he understood what he was doing, how he could want a clone as part of his clan, but there was no time. Din lead them towards the lava river, still unsteady enough that Boba was anxious just watching him, but the sounds of fighting could be heard even as they got farther away from the armory and there just wasn’t time.

They found the lava river, and even the stuck ferry boat didn’t give them pause for long. The cooled lava locking the boat to the shore was broken easily when Cara shot it, and the droid in the boat whirred to life obediently and responded to their directions, moving the boat towards the mouth of the tunnel. Boba needed a longer pause, a shorter one – the in-between was killing him, just enough time to keep almost-thinking about everything, not enough to process it, he was stuck between panic and numbness, couldn’t settle on either side.

It wasn’t over. Boba’s viewscreen alerted him first – a platoon of Stormtroopers, flanking the mouth of the tunnel as they approached it. Din looked to Boba, and from the slump of his shoulders, Boba could tell Din understood.

“Where?” he asked.

“Flanking the mouth of the tunnel,” Boba said, “entire platoon, looks like.”

They couldn’t stop; the lava kept swiftly pulling them forwards, towards the waiting Stormtroopers. “Stop the boat!” Cara yelled at the droid, which didn’t respond. “Stop! I’m talking to _you!”_

“It will not be able –” IG-11 began to explain, but Cara was already pulling out her blaster and shooting at the droid. Her first shot ricocheted off its frame and the second sent its head flying into the lava.

“You’re holding a _baby!”_ Boba huffed in her direction, when the first shot bounced back towards the boat. The boat continued its march forward, towards the Troopers. There had to be something, there had to be _something,_ but it was like Boba couldn’t think, couldn’t put the pieces together, Din was still shaky beside him and Boba didn’t know what they could _do_ –

“Looks like we fight,” Cara said, and Din shook his head.

“Too many.”

“Well, we can’t surrender.”

“They will not be satisfied with anything less than the child,” IG-11 added. The mouth of the tunnel kept growing larger. “I will eliminate the enemy, and you will escape,” IG-11 said.

“You don’t have that kind of firepower, you wouldn’t even get to daylight,” Boba told it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That is not my objective.”

“Uh, _can_ it be? Come on, you can’t – don’t do this,” Boba begged. IG-11 was a droid, but – but it had been there when he was falling apart, and for the first time since Boba had started regularly having panic attacks, there had been someone reassuring him that he would survive it. Boba didn’t want to lose IG-11, too.

“Self-destruction is the only way. I have security protocols from my manufacturer that would reset –”

“ _Stop it.”_

“My base command is to protect the child. I must protect those who can protect the child,” IG-11 said, and they were getting closer, closer to the end, and suddenly, Boba was seeing the walls of the cave all around them, closing in –

“Please, you can’t,” Boba heard the strain in his voice, tried to fight away the shake of it. Not now, not _now._ He tried not to curl in on himself, elbows propped heavily on his knees, rubbed the back of his neck, tried so hard not to notice the cave. He had to keep it together, had to convince IG-11 not to self-destruct, he couldn’t _fall apart._

“There is no scenario in which the child can be saved and I survive,” IG-11 said, and it paused, looked at Boba. “Please focus on your breathing,” it said, quieter, so only Boba could hear, beneath the sounds of the others’ voices. Boba shook his head frantically. He wasn’t looking at the walls, at the ceiling, at the mouth of the tunnel that would mean escaping the cave but also IG-11 self-destructing –

“You’re not going anywhere,” Din interrupted, but IG-11 was ignoring him, and Boba watched it move its hand, as it put down one finger, then two, three, clearly prompting him to breathe evenly. Boba struggled to comply, completed a shaky inhale until IG-11 had put down five fingers, then exhaled as it put each finger back up one by one.

“Okay? We need you. We just need a plan. You’d be destroyed,” Din sounded much steadier than Boba had. Boba kept his gaze fixed on IG-11’s hand, the slow five-count it was showing him. Din needed him, the child needed him, Boba couldn’t fall apart right now –

“And you will live, and I will have served my purpose.” 

“There has to be a way,” Din told IG-11, but it was touching the child’s head very gently with the hand that wasn’t still ticking off a count to five, as if in goodbye. “We need you. We’ll find a way.”

“There is nothing to be sad about. I have never been alive,” IG-11 said.

“I’m not sad,” Din said, though he sounded devastated. Boba could now picture the look on his face that would accompany the strained hurt in his voice, and it was going to _ruin_ him. Din had hated droids like he thought he’d never find one that could change his mind, like Din’s capacity for forgiveness wasn’t legendary. _You won’t always,_ he’d wanted to tell Din, when Din had told him; it had been a quiet, brief moment after the prison ship, Din telling Boba like the fact that he hadn’t already known was an oversight Din hadn’t meant to make. _You’ll see the good in other droids,_ he could have promised Din, and here Din was, doing just that _._

“I’m a nurse droid. I’ve analyzed your voice,” IG-11 said, and then it stepped off the boat into the lava. IG-11 pushed through the lava until it reached the mouth of the tunnel. Time seemed to move very quickly and then freeze, as IG-11’s self-destruct cast a radiant light back at them, an explosion of brightness that made the darkness that followed feel like the night sky Boba had found waiting for him outside the Sarlacc pit, a dark he could sink into. IG-11 was gone; Boba felt suddenly like he was teetering on the edge of a fall that once started, would never stop.

Fallen Stormtroopers lay on either side of the tunnel’s entrance, and as the ferry boat emerged into the light, the roaring of an approaching TIE fighter bearing down on them. It opened fire, missed only because they were still protected by the tunnel, and swooped away so it could circle back and fire again.

“It was Gideon!” Cara said, as Karga pushed a pole into the lava, guiding the boat towards the riverbank.

“He won’t miss next time,” Din said. The boat bumped against the shore. When Boba climbed out of the boat, he moved to check on the child in Cara’s arms, needed something solid to ground him. The child was fine, still fine, despite everything.

“Our blasters are useless against him,” Cara said, “There’s nowhere to hide here, and they’ll send more troops, I’m positive.” A ship could be heard in the distance; maybe, if they took out Gideon before the ship arrived, that would be enough. The Empire’s greatest weakness was the unwillingness of its troopers; it always collapsed without a leader, the masses without loyalty, without commitment.

“We have to,” Din said, and Boba shook his head. The plea in Din’s voice told him Din was thinking of the jetpack, knew it was the only way, knew he was too weak to manage it but didn’t want Boba to have to use it.

“You’re barely standing, and you aren’t trained,” Boba said, “I’ll do it.”

“Is this a good idea?” Cara asked, as Boba slung it over his shoulder.

“Didn’t manage to kill me last time,” he said, but still he was filled with a sick dread at the familiar weight of it against his back, could already feel the unbalanced jerking as it broke down, the scream that had lodged in his throat as he fell – he stepped closer to Din, bumped his helmet to Din’s. Boba had to do it.

Almost without conscious movement, he was firing up the jetpack and propelling himself into the sky; he forced himself to focus on the TIE fighter, and not the lurching feeling in his stomach, as he gained altitude. Just like last time, just like last time –

He had to do it, he couldn’t fall apart. For their child, for Din, for their _clan,_ and Boba looked down to see a swarm of Stormtroopers advancing towards Din and the others, made himself refocus on the TIE fighter as it banked to avoid him.

Boba managed to make it close enough to grab onto the side of the wing, slammed against the top of the ship before he managed to cling to it. Gideon tried to swerve to buck him off, and Boba hooked one arm over the edge of the wing, reached down to rip his blaster from its holster. He fired at the joint of the wing, and after a few tries, managed to hit the mechanism that folded the wing. He ducked his head down moments before the mechanism exploded in a burst of heat.

The TIE fighter careened downwards, and then Gideon had regained control, shooting upwards again, and the harsh change of direction jolted Boba free; he scrambled for a grip, but his hands slid against only smooth surfaces before he was falling, falling –

He hadn’t known, last time – he hadn’t known that falling into the Sarlacc would mean being slowly disintegrated, losing himself, he was just falling, and if he’d known he’d have been screaming in _anguish_ –

Boba twisted, managed to reignite the jetpack, and it roared back to life just in time to keep him from slamming into the ground. The TIE fighter was whipping around towards the direction of the lava river, and then Boba lost sight of it, as he hit the ground behind a rocky outcropping. Pain burst over his body as he landed, rocks jabbing in between his armor plates, the only sound he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He curled in on himself, gasping for breath, looking around frantically to reassure himself that he was here, on the ground, that he hadn’t fallen _into_ anything.

There was shooting from the direction of the lava river, and then the TIE fighter taking off again. Boba forced himself to his feet, slung the damaged jetpack over his shoulder, and started towards the lava river, though he knew what he was going to find. He knew, he knew – and when he saw them, Din’s slumped shoulders and the downward tilt of his head told Boba everything he needed to know. The child was gone.

Boba crossed the lava fields, watched from afar as Cara pointed her blaster at Karga, Karga lying on the ground with his hands raised, and Din, Din was motionless. If Boba hadn’t let Gideon go, if Boba hadn’t failed again, they wouldn’t have lost the child, _their child._

“They have the kid,” Boba said, when he walked up to them, voice hard so it wouldn’t shake. “Don’t they.” He stood over Karga. “It was you, wasn’t it.” It was Karga, because first, it had been Boba. If he hadn’t let Gideon get away from him –

“Look, don’t kill me,” Karga said, “I have information you don’t have! I can give you the client’s record, all the communication records, surely there’s something useful there –”

“If you say one more word,” Boba said, voice low and flat, “I will kill you. You have nothing I can’t get myself.”

Finally, Karga went silent. Cara looked away from him to glance up at Boba. “He took the kid from me,” she said quietly, “I wasn’t looking at him, I should have –” She fell silent. If Boba hadn’t let Gideon get away, if he’d just been faster, been _better,_ they wouldn’t have taken the child. Din wouldn’t be standing there, looking _devastated._

“You,” Boba punctuated this with a kick to Karga’s shoulder, “will give us every record you have on the Imperial you dealt with. You will then locate a ship that isn’t registered to the New Republic.”

“Why would I –” Karga began, and Boba stopped him with another kick to the shoulder. All he could do was find steps to take next. Get Karga’s information. Acquire a ship for Cara, because Din would want her to have the freedom to choose where she went next. And then – then –

“Give the records and the ship to Cara. Get up. Start walking.” Boba watched as Karga scrambled to his feet, and, Cara’s blaster still pointed at him, began walking towards the town. Karga looked over his shoulder more than once, but Boba didn’t move to follow.

“What’s the ship for?” Cara asked, blaster still raised as she watched Karga leave.

“You. We’ll come with you back to the town and take speeders out to the Razor Crest. You go with Karga and get what we need, then come meet us. From there, we’ll figure out what’s next.” He looked over at Din for confirmation, to know if he was doing the right thing, if there _was_ a right thing to do, and Din nodded. 

Boba caught up with Karga, blaster drawn. “Lead the way,” he spat. It could almost feel like Tatooine, though the ground beneath his boots was rocky and not sand, though only one sun hung in the sky. It felt like loss, again.

The town wasn’t far from the mouth of the tunnel. Before long, Karga had led them to an alleyway that would take them to the back door of the Guild; when he started towards the door, Boba jabbed him in the back with his blaster.

“You’re not going alone,” he said, because he knew what people did, as soon as they were out of sight of the person holding them captive: they stopped being afraid. Karga would get away, and any lead they could glean from information he had would be gone.

“You think _you’re_ coming with me?” Karga scoffed. “Every person still in that building would shoot you on sight.” The Stormtroopers seemed to have cleared out, but he was still right; it didn’t matter who was in there, anyways, most people would know enough to want Boba dead if they had the opportunity. “And before _you_ volunteer,” Karga said to Cara, “That’s a quick road to getting captured. They’re hungry for bounties, and you’re a criminal.”

“I’ll go with you,” Din said, and Boba wanted to protest, but Din was already waving him off. “It’s fine. I can still shoot him if I have to.”

Boba watched Din leave with Karga, and the door closed behind them. Boba glanced in Cara’s direction, stepped away to sit on one of the boulders clustered by the back of the building.

“So,” Cara ventured, “I don’t know how you did it, but, uh. I’m glad you got him to take the helmet off so he didn’t die.”

“Yeah.” Boba’s voice was hoarse. He’d forced Din to break his Creed. It had saved Din’s life, but at what cost? What was Din going to feel, about that? Boba propped his elbows on his knees, just wanted to put his head in his hands and not _think_ about any of it.

“I knew you’d do whatever it took,” Cara said, and how _awful_ was that? That Din had brought with him someone so desperate for him, he’d even make Din break his Creed? Din had lived by that all of his life. _No living thing,_ he’d said, but maybe if he knew Boba was just a clone, it would help. He was barely a living thing of his own, after all. Maybe if Din knew – maybe if Boba could somehow force himself to tell Din the worst thing about himself, and he’d suffer the way Din would look at him afterwards, wouldn’t see Din’s face but would now be able to picture the way he would frown, the pity in his dark, dark eyes.

“I know,” Boba said, the words catching in his throat.

“Have you, uh, seen his face before?” Cara asked, and Boba looked up at her, grateful she couldn’t see the pleading look that was surely on his face. “I mean, you act like you already know he’s good-looking,” she said, laughed weakly.

 _Good-looking enough to justify everything?_ Din had asked, because Boba was the first person to see his face in decades and he’d been shielded from the unbearable anxiety of being seen only until that moment, as if Boba was the one breaking a lifelong Creed and Din was asking _was it worth it,_ a question Din was going to have to answer for himself later. Later, when he looked at Boba and asked himself _is he enough, to justify breaking the Creed._ Boba wasn’t.

“No,” Boba managed, and he _broke._ A sob tore its way out of his chest and he dropped his head into his hands, couldn’t stop the shuddering sobs that wracked him, even though Cara was right there, even though he didn’t _want to,_ but it hit him all at once: he’d almost _lost Din._ Din had to either break his Creed or die _,_ and Boba had come so close to losing him. Din had _wanted Boba to lose him._ That was what the Creed meant to him, that was what Din had wanted, and Boba had ruined it because he was too afraid to face a galaxy without Din anymore, because he selfishly, helplessly loved Din.

“Uh, I’m, um,” Cara was stammering, and Boba tried to stop, he _tried,_ but he was so tired and so overwhelmed, and Din had almost been _dead._ “I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Cara’s hand touched his shoulder for only a brief moment before flitting away again, and Boba wanted to leave, wanted to hide, but where could he go, and he couldn’t make himself move, crumpling to ash. “Oh, shit, I’ll, uh, find…?”

“Don’t, don’t,” Boba gasped, struggled to catch his breath, voice ragged. “Fuck, don’t tell him. I’m sorry.” He took his helmet off and rubbed his face, gloves rough against his wet cheeks, and he turned away from Cara, burning with humiliation. He yanked his helmet back on and stood, though his knees felt too weak to let him actually walk away. “There they are,” he said as the back door up the alleyway opened, but Cara didn’t look over, was still giving him a wide-eyed, panicky look like she thought he might break down at any moment. Fuck, he still might, she wasn’t _wrong._ He felt so wrung-out and overdrawn, he’d almost lost Din and the terror of it was still coursing through him. And their _baby,_ their baby was gone, how could Boba survive this when there was a tragedy waiting for him at the very next step? He’d been so close to losing Din, and they’d lost their child, Boba had so much to _lose_ now.

“Everything okay?” Din asked when he brought Karga back, because Cara still looked like she’d seen something terrifying. Boba hung his head, looked away.

“Um, everything’s good,” Cara replied, and Boba knew without looking that Din would be tilting his head, transmitting disbelief, but oh, now he could picture Din’s face, and Boba wanted to sink to his knees and beg forgiveness for it. In breaking Din’s Creed, had he taken it from Din? Surely they’d still accept him, he was _one of them,_ but if Boba had marooned Din from his own past, if he’d made Din into an orphan like himself, someone the Mandalorians would shun, Boba would never forgive himself. He’d been so afraid to lose Din, he’d made Din lose himself instead.


	16. Chapter 16

Even seeing the Razor Crest again wasn’t comforting. All Boba could see as the ship rose before them on the gradually darkening horizon was the shape of Kuiil’s body on the ground. Boba stopped his speeder, heard Din’s slow down beside his as well. If Boba had realized earlier, if he’d had a comlink just in case, if he’d correctly predicted what would happen –

Beside him, Din had gone still, staring at Kuiil’s body. When Boba looked at him, all he could see was how much pain Din was in, in the subtle slump of his shoulders, the slight dip of his head, the way he leaned against the speeder after climbing off of it.

“You go ahead,” Boba told him, because Din would want to help, would feel like it was his responsibility, and it wasn’t his fault. It was Boba’s.

“No, I should –” Din started forward, and Boba stopped him with a hand on his elbow, as much as he dared to touch Din.

“Let me.” Boba removed his own helmet, held it out for Din to take; Din cradled it in his arms, and didn’t protest. “I’m the one that got to him too late.”

Boba remembered burying his father; he remembered the heaviness of the shovel in his hands and had always thought it was because he was so young, still so small; burying Kuiil proved that it hadn’t been a physical exhaustion at all. Even now, it was hard to dig a grave. When he’d buried his father, he’d been alone; Boba kept looking over his shoulder to find Din.

 _It is your attachments that keep you on that path,_ Kuiil had told Boba, the very opposite of Jango. Boba had stood alone at his father’s grave, and Jango had _wanted_ it that way, had told him that a bounty hunter had no attachments, that he didn’t need anyone. All it had done was make Boba think he wasn’t good enough, because he _desperately_ needed not to be alone, and all that could mean was that he couldn’t live up to what his father wanted. Maybe if he’d been able to be alone, he’d have proved there was a reason he was the only clone given a name. Kuiil had proved that his father wasn’t entirely wrong – Kuiil’s attachments had gotten him killed, after all, but maybe they’d made his life more fulfilling, too. Boba just didn’t know. He knew he couldn’t survive the way his father had told him to, though.

When Boba began covering the filled grave with rocks, Din joined him, moving rocks into a small pile and then standing beside him, motionless. Had he gotten to bury his parents? Boba didn’t think so, and he didn’t know if that was better or worse, what he would have wished for Din other than never losing them in the first place.

“I’d say something, but he can’t hear us anyways,” Boba muttered, gaze fixed on the ground. “You sacrificed your life for us the way a father would.” Boba hadn’t, for their child. He was still here, and the child was gone. His arms felt empty suddenly, and he ached for the weight of the child against his chest, its tiny little coos.

“We’ll get the kid back,” Din said, like he knew what Boba was thinking.

Boba led Din to the Crest, where they could wait for Cara to return with Karga’s information and a ship, hopefully the makings of a plan. Once inside, Din began removing his armor, and Boba stripped off his own quickly, meaning to leave, but he couldn’t make himself go. He had to – to apologize, at the very least. He wouldn’t let himself beg for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when Din paused to look in his direction. “I know what the Creed means to you. I’m sorry I made you break it.” It wasn’t enough, but how could anything he said ever be enough to justify what he’d done to Din?

“You were right,” Din said, and it struck Boba silent. “The reason we don’t show our faces, it’s so we’re judged by our deliberate decisions. It makes us nothing but our choices. You already know all of those. You know everything.” The Mandalorians would never understand, Boba realized, chest aching with it. They _weren’t_ nothing but their choices. They still had faces, still had names, they weren’t _clones,_ and they weren’t trying to pretend they didn’t _have_ identities, they were valuing an identity above all else, as an intimate, treasured secret. They would never understand, and Boba hadn’t taken something from Din that he’d hid out of necessity, he’d taken something precious. _“Werlaara,_ it’s okay,” Din murmured, but Boba still drifted away before Din could remove his helmet again.

The back ramp opened to the nearly-set sun on the horizon; Boba sat down at the top of it, watched the sky continue to darken. When he heard footsteps, he didn’t look over, even as Din sank down beside him.

“We’ll get the kid back, right?” Boba asked, needed to hear it from Din; when he turned, the absence of Din’s helmet broke his heart all over again. Boba could see Din’s tousled, dark hair, his patchy beard and his full lips, the curve of his nose and the concern reflected in his eyes. Boba felt dangerously near tears. _You don’t have to,_ he wanted to tell Din, even as he wanted to sob in gratitude for Din’s willingness, his choice to do this again.

“Yes,” Din promised, his voice an entirely new thing, without the helmet. “It’s ours. We’ll get it back.”

“Clan of three,” Boba whispered, nearly a plea. Despite everything he’d done to Din. Despite everything he’d taken. He inched his hand closer to Din’s, and swallowed a whimper when Din squeezed it gently.

“Clan of three.” 

Boba couldn’t stop looking at him. Maybe it was better, that he knew Din’s face now; Din was so disarmingly handsome, Boba would never dare to kiss him, never feel good enough to touch him. _I don’t count,_ Boba needed to tell him, _I’m a clone._ But when Din was looking at him like that, Boba was powerless to pull away from him. Din had said it so readily, _clan of three,_ like he’d already felt it was true – had he known, when Boba took off his helmet? He had the most expressive face, and there was no regret, when he looked at Boba; despite never before seeing his face, Boba felt sure he could recognize every emotion there.

“You should get some rest,” Boba said, when the sky was fully dark, and Din nodded, gave a small hum of agreement that the voice modular might not have picked up on, if he was wearing the helmet. Boba’s heart twisted at the thought.

Din let go of Boba’s hand and stood, but when Boba didn’t follow suit, Din’s fingertips drifted over Boba’s shoulder. If he asked Boba to come – it was somehow both harder and easier to stop from reaching for him. Harder, because Boba _ached_ for him, thoroughly undone by kind eyes and a patchy beard with gray spots in it, but easier, too, because he felt even more real when Boba could see his face, and it terrified Boba into staying still. He didn’t deserve Din like that.

“I kept my promise,” Din said, still lingering. Boba turned his head just slightly to look up at Din, hiding his face the only defense he had left. “But I don’t think I could have slept there anyways. Without you.” There was such a softness to his voice, that the modulator usually flattened out. Boba’s lower lip trembled at the sound of it. 

“I was so worried about you,” he whispered. “You’re not – you aren’t going back to the – following the Creed?”

“I still do,” Din said, but then his voice lowered. “Not with you.”

 _I don’t count,_ Boba tried to tell him, but the words were too hard to say, and he hung his head, staring down at the ground. But Din didn’t know he was a clone – why didn’t Boba count, in his eyes? Why wasn’t it breaking the Creed, with him? Din’s fingertips still rested on his shoulder and he let himself wonder, for a moment, if it was because he was part of Din’s clan. If it wasn’t because he was nothing, but because he was _Din’s,_ and Din had known that when Boba was taking off his helmet. Maybe Din had done it _because_ it was with Boba. 

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, sounding so tired, an edge of pain still lurking around his words, halting his movements as he shifted from one foot to the other. His hand found Boba’s shoulder again, fingertips stroking along it gently; despite the haze of pain and wrung-out exhaustion, Boba’s body still sang for him, everything in him aching for Din, sitting up at attention at his touch.

Din left for the bed without him; Boba had made Din promise not to sleep without him, but here he was anyways, too nervous to follow Din to bed. How could he ever sleep beside Din without giving it all away, when he could see Din’s face? Boba was suddenly only ever a moment away from an incriminating whimper, but watching Din walk away from him was too wrong to survive. After everything, after almost _losing him,_ Boba couldn’t fight a swell of anxiety when Din disappeared from view.

He didn’t know if he _should,_ but he couldn’t help it, was getting to his feet before he could think better of it and following Din back into the ship. Din had already crawled into bed, but he’d left the door open; Boba lingered at the entrance, peeking in as Din shifted around to try and get comfortable. Boba set one knee on the end of the bed, leaned in tentatively. Din had curled in on himself, the blanket twisted like he’d given up straightening it out.

“Here,” Boba murmured, barely a breath, and reached to unwind the blanket, pulled it up to Din’s shoulder. Din’s breathing still wasn’t quite right, still strained from pain though better than it had been earlier. He’d already fallen asleep, probably knocked out from the pain he was in and the ongoing exhaustion; Boba knew they’d had no other choice, but he never should have left Din’s side. It wasn’t like the plan had worked anyways, maybe it would have been better if he _had_ been there.

Boba couldn’t make himself leave, but couldn’t let himself just climb into bed beside Din either. He was too edgy to sleep, too helpless to his own desperate neediness to trust himself not to reach for Din. _Good-looking enough to justify everything?_ Din had asked, and it was the strongest Boba had ever had to be, not to break down in helpless sobs of _yes, yes, yes._ How could Boba share a bed with him like _this?_ The helmet had reminded Boba that Din wasn’t his, but seeing him like this, his dark hair mussed against the pillow, Boba could lose himself in how much Din almost felt like his. 

Din shifted slightly, and the movement produced a small groan of pain that broke Boba’s resolve, had him reaching to stroke Din’s hair in sympathy; Din sighed in his sleep, the softest, most fragile sound Boba had ever heard. Boba drew his hand away reluctantly, and forced himself to climb off the bed before he was tempted to do anything else in a helpless chase of that tiny, sweet sound.

He closed the door of the bed compartment so Din could sleep in peace, returned to the ramp and sat watching the night sky, wind whipping across the black rock and the crackle of lava drifting over from a nearby river. It felt wrong going to sleep without first tucking the child to bed, anyways; wherever it was, no one would sing it to sleep. Falling apart had become slower, a gradual disintegrating; maybe Boba just had nothing left to break down, or maybe the undeniable proof that he _hadn’t_ lost Din was going to let him keep it together just enough to function. They’d lost the child, but they still stood a chance to get it back; if Din died, the galaxy would have gone with him.

The sound of a ship landing broke the silence of the landscape after a couple hours, and he wasn’t surprised to see Cara tentatively approaching the ramp, though she looked startled to see him. She took halting steps up the ramp, watching him in a different way than before – not like he might shoot her, but like he might do something alarming, like cry.

“Hey,” she called, stopping a short distance from him. “Got a ship.”

“I heard.”

“From… Karga?”

“No,” Boba sighed, gestured vaguely. “Like… I heard it? Landing?”

“Oh. Right.” Cara crossed her arms over her chest, maybe waiting for him to say something else, but it wasn’t like he had anything left to say; she knew the entirety of the situation. Boba stood, tilted his head towards the interior of the ship.

“Coming?” he asked, and Cara headed past him; he closed the ramp against the cold night air and followed, grabbed his helmet on the way back in and put it on again. Cara was wandering in aimless circles, and the bed compartment’s door was closed. She looked almost relieved, when she couldn’t see his face anymore.

“So, uh,” Cara started, and there was an uncomfortable set to her shoulders as she recrossed her arms. It was like she _couldn’t_ look at him the same way anymore, and was that better, than her seeing only the terrible things he’d done? He thought he might have preferred that, over the confused pity she had for him now. The further he got from that afternoon and the further he drew back from the edge of clashing, hysterical emotions and sank into a numb acceptance, the more humiliating it became. “I guess I should just… address it.”

“No, you really don’t have to.”

“Are you… okay?” Cara asked, somewhere between tense and delicate, like she was picking her way across a minefield, and what she was really trying to do was find out if she was going to be held liable for the destroyed state of him. 

“Cara, you don’t even like me,” Boba felt compelled to remind her. “It’s okay to think I deserve this, alright? You’re right, you’ve always been right, I shouldn’t have been able to live with the shit I’ve done.” He _deserved_ to be a wreck. He deserved to have lost the ability to shoulder things the way he used to, deserved to have become plagued by the things he’d done, dragged into hysterical panic at the slightest reminder, incapacitated by hurt, made unlovable for his instability.

“ _He_ likes you,” Cara said, but Boba wasn’t sure what that was supposed to prove, since it said more about Din and his capacity for forgiveness than about Boba and his deserving of it. “Where’s, uh,” she asked, like the mention of Din gave her a spark of hope that he could take over this conversation, keep her from having to trudge through it. “Am I okay to use his name, now? I thought that wasn’t allowed, for you guys. But I know it, so.”

“I don’t know.” Boba’s voice sharpened at the reminder of the Creed. _Not with you,_ he’d said, but Boba didn’t know what that meant, if it could possibly be something good and not just ruinous. “I do.” Did _that_ mean something, too? He didn’t understand any of the creed Din governed his life by, and how was Boba supposed to understand how he fit into something that had never accepted him?

“Yeah, well, I’m not you. He _told_ it to you voluntarily.”

“I guess.” Boba paused. “Anyways, he’s sleeping.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why aren’t you there?” Cara’s tone was light again, and then she seemed to remember what had happened last time she’d tried to say something teasing, and guilt crossed her face. “Karga gave me a ship,” she said, again.

“I can see that,” Boba reminded her.

“I guess, uh. Thanks for telling him to? And… I’m sorry. It’s my fault they got the kid.”

“You tried,” Boba said shortly.

“Yeah, well. For all the good that did us.” She shifted from one foot to the other, crossed her arms tighter. “Look, just. I’m really sorry I couldn’t protect your kid. I’m gonna stick with you guys and help get it back.”

“Surprised you don’t think it’s better off with them than with me,” he said, because he wanted her to- to _remember_ that. He didn’t want her to keep looking at him like he was a wreck, that was _worse._

“You’re not worse than the _literal Empire,”_ Cara said, “not these days.”

“Used to be, though.”

“What do you expect from me, exactly?” Cara’s voice rose abruptly, and Boba breathed a sigh of relief. Better shouting at him than pitying him, than looking at him like he might start crying again and she was terrified of the possibility. “You were a mercenary for the Empire, Fett! I can accept that you’ve changed because you found a kid that needs you, but it hasn’t been that long! Like, shit, I can have mixed feelings. You might have a family with one of my friends, but you also routinely killed and captured innocent people for pay. I can have some fucking mixed feelings when you’re a nice guy but also a murderer!”

“I _know!”_ Boba snarled, and fuck, maybe this _wasn’t_ better, because he didn’t feel like he could handle hearing this, ether. “Me too, okay? I did it, and I’m not alright with it anymore. I don’t know how to make up for it, all I want to do is just find our kid and raise it, and be with _him_ –” his voice broke, he fell silent. He wanted to be with Din, he just – he just wanted to be with Din.

The door to the bed compartment slid open. Din had put his helmet back on, and he looked between them for a long, silent moment. “Hey,” he offered, and the return of the modulated effect on his voice made Boba feel a pang of loss.

“How did we wake you up?” Cara deadpanned, “we were so quiet.”

“Sorry,” Boba mumbled. “Cara’s back,” he said, unnecessarily. Cara rolled her eyes, but there was still a confused, pitying look on her face.

“Karga wasn’t particularly useful,” Cara informed Din, “although he did come through on the ship. You guys not have enough seat belts on this one for me to catch a ride anymore?”

“What did he say about the Client?” Din asked. When he stepped closer to them, Boba ducked around behind him, went to sit on the end of the bed, further from Din and Cara. He couldn’t stand being the focus of Cara’s attention, or even of Din’s, just wanted to duck away and stop being looked at.

“Unsurprisingly, he exaggerated his usefulness there.”

“We have _nothing?”_ Din looked from Cara to Boba, and Boba shrugged a shoulder.

“Don’t look so despairing,” Cara said to Din, “Isn’t tracking things down what you guys _do?”_

“There’s usually more to go on than ‘somewhere in space,’” Din said. “There’s the chain code, last known location, known associates, _something.”_

“Sure, but that’s not all we have, either, is it? We know it’s with the Empire somewhere, right?”

“Great,” Boba contributed sullenly from the corner, crossed his arms over his chest, “that narrows it down, seeing as they’re all in hiding. Good start.”

“There was a lab involved,” Din said gamely. “A doctor, or scientist. We found the kid at a compound on Arvala-7. Looked like a smuggler’s storage compound, but no one that well-known.”

“There’s a big operation behind this,” Boba contributed. “Lots of resources. Gideon was able to find the child in that compound.”

“So?” Cara said, and Din turned back to look at Boba; Boba could picture his worried brown eyes perfectly.

“A smuggler found a strange creature while raiding,” Boba said flatly. He waited. Cara stared. “That’s what they had to go on. You know how many credits it would take to scour space until they found that kid, in that smuggler’s compound? How many smugglers there are, how many planets? I guarantee this started as a rumor about the smuggler who found the kid. Gideon had the resources to find it, with nothing to go on.”

“Why didn’t they just take it?” Din asked, “Why use an intermediary?”

“He must not have had the manpower yet. There aren’t many Stormtroopers left, I was surprised there were so many here at all. He couldn’t go himself, either. Gideon doesn’t do his own work. That’s why he hired me to kill the Admiral, and to kill Shand when the Admiral tried to hire her. But he didn’t try and contact me when they were going to recapture the kid here, so he must have gained manpower in the meantime.”

“You _did_ fail the first time he hired you,” Cara pointed out. “Maybe he just didn’t think you could handle it.”

“He’d have had me killed, if I’d really stopped being useful,” Boba said flatly, “or tried, anyways.”

“So, fine. We know he has the resources,” Cara said. “We’re not looking for something small.”

“The lab,” Din said. “That’s their weakest link. The doctor wasn’t really an Imperial. They got him from somewhere, they either paid or threatened him enough to keep him, but he didn’t come from the Empire. He wanted to keep the kid safe. He said _they_ wanted to extract something from the kid, but he kept it alive.” 

“If he was being paid, he’d still be with them now,” Boba said. “If he was being threatened, he’d have used that day to escape. And if the Empire can threaten you into working for them, you don’t just run away, you run to someone who can protect you. You’d know they could find you anywhere you hid.”

“You’d go to the only guys who have ever taken the Empire down,” Cara said. “We’ll go to D’Qar. I know who to talk to.”

“Not much to go on,” Din said, and he sounded so weary, so already-defeated, that Boba _had_ to touch him, to try and comfort him. He stood, went to drape an arm over Din’s shoulders, desperate to comfort Din in even a tiny way.

“I’ve had less to go on and found what I was looking for. Our clan always finds what it’s looking for.” He felt Din’s exhale, some of the tenseness of his shoulders relaxing; was that what it meant, that Boba was in his clan? That Boba’s confidence in them mattered, that his reassurance helped Din to breathe easier? That Din could take off his helmet in front of Boba, and feel that he was somewhere safe as long as it was just the two of them? It felt like too much meaning for him, for a _clone_ to carry, but the look on Din’s face had been a wholly trusting one, for Boba alone.

Boba left for the cockpit, while he could still convince himself to let go of Din. He yanked himself up the ladder, and then took the captain’s seat as he waited for Din. He could still hear them talking quietly, the words too soft to make out. Could still hear his own voice in his ears, telling Din _our clan._ He drummed his fingers impatiently against the control panel, overflowing with nervous energy; Cara’s ship was parked near the Crest, and it looked like it was the same class as the Slave III had been, or maybe Slave II. What did it _mean,_ that he was Din’s clan? Did it mean Din didn’t feel guilty, taking off his helmet in front of Boba? Could it really feel right, to Din?

“Has Cara left yet?” Boba called down, when he was seized by the worry that if left alone for too long, she might _tell_ Din what had happened. “Get off the ship, Cara! Let’s go!” he struggled not to sound frantic about it. Thankfully, it was followed by the sound of footsteps before long, and then Din was joining him in the cockpit.

“Not a bad ship she’s got,” Boba said, as he programmed in their course. He moved quickly through launch procedures, needing to be absorbed in something. “Wonder if she killed Karga.”

“Probably wanted to, but I don’t think she did.”

“I’m not bad for the kid, am I?” Boba asked abruptly, couldn’t hold the words back. _He_ probably would have killed Karga, after all.

“No.”

“I went to prison when I was twelve, hardly a good influence.” It was a brief summary of a time that had felt endless; he’d escaped because a life on the run had felt less dangerous than spending several more years with nothing to do but face unbearable truths about himself.

“You lost your father,” Din said, paused. “Kid isn’t going to.” Boba’s chest tightened at his words; _am I its father, too,_ he wanted to ask, because he already knew Din was, but that was different, Din would be _good_ at it.

“Things… got out of hand pretty early. I never learned how to turn it around.” He glanced back at Din, and the sight of Din without his helmet floored him all over again. Would he ever get used to it, the sweet concern on Din’s face, the way he looked at Boba like nothing else existed, gaze fixed unwaveringly on him. “I want to be better, for you guys. I won’t go back,” Boba said, and it had never felt truer than when he saw Din watching him like that. How could he ever go back? He wouldn’t survive the way Din would look at him, if he did. He didn’t want to be something a good man wouldn’t like, and maybe that was the beginning of being good. Boba turned back to the front, breathing suddenly shallower.

“I know,” Din said, and Boba couldn’t help but glance back again, pleading. 

“You do?”

“I do, _werlaara.”_ Was there ever a way for Boba to tell Din he didn’t know what that word meant? Sometimes, when he heard it, he needed desperately to understand, but other times, just Din’s soft way of saying it was enough. It felt too late to ask, too late to admit that he didn’t belong with the Mandalorians, because what if that was why Din could keep his helmet off in front of Boba? What if it was because he thought Boba had once been one of them, and if he found out Boba wasn’t – would he never see Din’s face again?

Boba snuck another look just to reassure himself that he still could, even took off his own helmet again so that he could really see. Din still looked exhausted, had only been able to sleep for a couple hours before Cara returned. He had his chin propped in his hand, looking out the viewscreen; there were still some cuts on his face that made Boba wince for him, across his nose and along his jaw, extending towards his neck. The thought of Din getting shot nearly in the head still made Boba feel sick.

“Hey,” he ventured, Din looking to him as soon as he spoke, “Are you… okay? After everything? You… you almost died,” Boba had to force the words out. “I know I’m…” _not okay,_ but he couldn’t get himself to say it. “It was pretty close.”

“I’m fine,” Din said, but his eyes were filled with concern again; did he look like that all the time, naturally, or did Boba just worry him? “You said you wanted to die on Mustafar,” Din said, like _that_ was what bothered him, not almost dying, not the pain he’d been through, but _that._ “And I hadn’t understood.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get it.” It had been a defeated, delirious time, and Boba _had_ wanted to die there, he had, the rest of his life an empty, meaningless chasm he was afraid to face, but then, almost immediately afterwards, Din had lifted him up so gently it had broken the terrified thing inside him. “But you’re okay? Getting that close can be…” A lot of things, in his experience. The most terrifying had been _disappointing._

“I promise I’m okay,” Din said, and he really did sound steady; whenever anything went wrong, that was how Din sounded, like maybe the way he coped was by being calm. Boba had no mechanism for that anymore, or maybe he never had; had he ever dealt with things in a way that didn’t hurt? When his father died, he tore himself apart out of grief and rage, threw himself into the chase for vengeance that landed him in prison. When he killed all those clones on Kamino and was alone on his ship afterwards, he’d sobbed for hours and then taken the riskiest jobs he could find like he was _trying_ to get himself killed. And the Sarlacc pit – collapsing in panicked hysteria every time he saw a cave didn’t feel like handling it well.

“How do you do that?” Boba asked, and Din tilted his head, blinked bewildered eyes at him. “You’re so calm,” Boba said, because he couldn’t quite say it out loud, _I can’t handle anything I’ve been through,_ but he didn’t have to. Din knew he hadn’t escaped his life unscathed.

“I guess it always feels like there’s nothing to do but keep going,” Din said. “And that seems easier than trying to undo anything that already happened.”

It was so simple, but he was telling it to a man who had spent his whole life trying to undo the circumstances of his entire existence.

Boba fell silent, and the only sound was the hum of the ship. He watched the streaking stars of hyperspace, had always been comforted by them and their silence; maybe he just liked to know he was going somewhere, movement the only comforting thing left. When he looked over, he saw Din had fallen asleep, legs outstretched and head tilted against the back of the seat, arms crossed over his broad chest. Whatever else it meant, that Boba was the one person Din didn’t have to uphold the Creed in front of, at least Boba knew for sure that it meant this, that Boba got to see the face of the man he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr at icehot13 if you'd like to yell about softest!boba or see more little fics!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone for your AMAZING comments, i love you, i want you to know this fic is for you personally, your comments bring me so much joy and encouragement :))))

Boba knew what was waiting for them on D’Qar. He’d never been to the planet, but he knew, and given how much Cara hated him despite never having met him before Sorgan, he was willing to bet that her Resistance connection was to someone he’d encountered in the past. The entire ordeal wasn’t something he was looking forward to, no matter who it ended up being. He tried not to transmit his nervousness, but given the amount of times Din looked over at him as they approached the planet, Boba was sure he’d failed. He caught every single one, how could he not? Din had his helmet off again, and Boba’s only reprieve from worrying about D’Qar was gazing at the tousled curls of Din’s hair, the patches of gray in his sparse beard, the very slight frown of concentration he had whenever he was at the control panel. Boba hadn’t been able to look away.

“I’m sure they know me,” he finally said, after yet another look from Din. “I know I deserve to keep – keep facing everything I did, but –” He watched as a sympathetic concern filled Din’s eyes, how he bit his lip when he was trying to think of what to say. Boba looked away, towards the viewscreen, chin propped in his hand with his elbow on the panel. “Makes it hard to believe I deserve to be different, I guess,” he mumbled into his hand, voice muffled. Din was quiet for a moment, and Boba didn’t dare look at him. He was always looking at Boba with a ruinous amount of concern; that he cared so deeply made Boba’s heart break with a gratitude he didn’t know how to hold.

“Wanting to be means you deserve it,” Din said, and of course he would think so, of course; his capacity to forgive was legendary, and all along, _this_ was how he’d been looking at Boba, with this amount of compassion.

D’Qar was densely forested, the air permeated with mist; Boba followed Din down the ramp reluctantly, trying to think of how to ask if he could just wait on the ship. For once, that felt like the easier option.

“Are we asking the Ewoks for a battalion?” he mumbled under his breath, as he glowered at the surrounding trees, bad mood extending to wash over the surroundings. He hated the density of the trees, the coldness of the air, the odd stillness of the clearing. Hated the way Cara shook her head at the sight of him, hated that she was _looking_ at him. The memory of breaking down in front of her still made him want to curl away in humiliation, shame making heat rise up the back of his neck at the mere appearance of her.

“You’re not gonna like this,” she started, “but. You,” she pointed at Boba, “really can’t go in there looking like that.”

Boba cocked his head, made a show of looking down at his armor and back up at Cara. He knew. He fucking knew. Anyone who deserved to stay in the Resistance would shoot him on sight, and the obviousness of it made him bitter, made him feel stupid for not realizing it before leaving the ship.

“You can’t make him take it off,” Boba said, nodding towards Din, “Won’t let you.” He was being difficult, he knew, and Cara’s exasperated look told him so. It was better than even an ounce of pity on her face. Why did it have to be _her?_ She didn’t like him, she didn’t feel _safe,_ not like Din, though the thought of Din seeing it made Boba recoil in horror. Din would feel safer, but _oh,_ how could he like Boba anymore, after seeing that?

“This isn’t an armor thing, this is a _you_ thing. They know you, from your less savory years. If you walk in, they’re going to shoot you.” He saw Din give her a reprimanding head tilt, maybe because she sounded like she’d find the whole thing a pretty acceptable turnout.

“So… I just don’t go,” Boba shrugged, looked to Din hopefully. “You guys can handle this.”

“No, if they figure out you’re involved later, and that we weren’t upfront about it,” Cara’s voice drifted off, but Boba was barely paying attention, watching Din and hoping for the little tilt of his head that would mean _I understand, stay._ It didn’t come. The head tilt he got said _I understand, I’m sorry you can’t stay._ “We’re not lying to these guys. Take it off.”

Boba heaved a sigh, tilted his head to look over at Din for a final confirmation. Din shrugged, gave a small nod. Boba sighed, and headed back into the ship. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much, this time around; he’d done it when they asked Cara to help them, after all. Something about this felt different, something about approaching people he’d directly hurt, without the protection of his own armor, his own name. There would be a moment where they didn’t know him. There would be a moment where they might mistake him for another clone.

He left his identifiable armor and swapped out the main pieces for Din’s spare set, left his helmet behind. There was a chance people here would have known clones, though, would have been involved in the Clone Wars, would look at him and see what he really was. Would Din be able to tell? Would this be when Din finally learned why Boba wasn’t a Mandalorian? Boba dragged a hand through his hair, gave his helmet a last miserable glance.

“Okay, you ready to –” he started, but then the silence of the cargo hold hit him, and he trailed off. Of course. The child wasn’t here. Wasn’t waiting for Boba to scoop it in up and carry it outside; Boba’s arms felt achingly empty, as he left the ship, and it left him feeling more vulnerable than losing his armor had.

“Can we get going?” he tried not to sound as irritable as he felt, when he rejoined them outside. Din looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Cara.

“Lead the way,” he told her, “Personally, I’m hoping they’re Ewoks.”

Cara laughed, beckoned them after her. “Sorry, no Ewoks. These guys don’t actually _live_ in the jungle.”

They followed Cara through the jungle in silence for at least twenty minutes; when she stopped, it was before a metal hatch in the ground, concealed by foliage. As if every jungle planet in every fucking parsec didn’t have a setup like this; Boba grit his teeth, looking around as Cara uncovered a keypad. He supposed he should feel grateful it wasn’t another desert planet, though this felt worse, given the circumstances. A Resistance base crawling with people who knew about the clones. He’d be hard-pressed to think of a worse place to go. 

The hatch opened up to a ladder, a narrow tunnel that led to a more developed corridor with people walking through. Thick tree roots crawled through the walls; Boba had once been in a facility where that was used to destroy it from the inside out, the roots providing a path directly inside the otherwise well-protected building. He couldn’t remember the bounty, just the tree roots dissolving into rivers of molten chemical, burning pathways into the building.

They passed a hangar with T-70 X-wings, further confirming that they were in a Resistance base. Like Boba wouldn’t recognize those things anywhere, though Cara’s decision not to outright tell him was almost a kindness. Or, more likely, her thinking he couldn’t handle hearing it. No doubt she saw him as an emotional wreck now.

“Hey,” Din murmured from beside Boba, and Boba nodded, tried not to grimace. He knew. Din knew now, too, although he had no idea the real danger each person they passed carried. Any one of them could look at Boba and say a name that wasn’t his.

Cara led them through a few hallways, and after a couple wrong turns and backtracking, came upon a closed door. She glanced back at them before tapping the keypad to slide the door open. Inside was a small meeting room that branched off towards a few screens and office nooks; people milled around near the screens further back, and Boba recognized one of them immediately, and his chest constricted at the sight of her. Great. Someone who might have known about the clones _and_ had seen him at the height of his legendary wreckage.

“Cara!” Leia Organa rushed over to throw her arms around Cara. Boba took a small step further away from Din, didn’t want her to immediately look over at them and group Din in with him. _He wouldn’t have been there,_ Boba wanted to be telling her, _he’s not part of anything I’ve done, he’d never have stood for what I witnessed._ “This is the best place I could get for us, I’m afraid I don’t have much clearance here, but I’ll do anything I can. What’s going on? I’ve been trying to find you for ages.”

“I’ve been keeping a low profile,” Cara said, to an immediately defiant look from Leia, the most familiar look that could be on her face. Leia had always been a particularly difficult person to deal with, so passionate about doing the right thing that opposing her felt cosmically wrong in a way that rarely bothered Boba before meeting her. It had always been easy to overlook the ramifications of his actions, to focus only on the job that could be a building block to an identity, but not when he was going up against someone so vehement a force for good.

“Who’re your friends?” Leia’s voice made Boba’s attention snap back to her and Cara. Leia’s gaze lingered on Din, face clouding with suspicion. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a Mandalorian.” Which was a fucking joke, really. The last so-called Mandalorian she’d seen was Boba, and he was the farthest thing from it. How could anyone look at Din and see a similarity to Boba? Goodness radiated from Din.

“To be fair,” Cara said, “ _he_ wasn’t one.” Boba gave a small scoff under his breath. As if his status as a Mandalorian rested on her approval.

“Well,” Leia strode towards Din, shook his hand. “I’m Leia Organa. Pleasure to meet you, hopefully.”

“We appreciate your help,” Din said; Boba’s heart lifted just slightly, at the reminder that Din wouldn’t tell anyone else his name. Boba knew it, was one of the only people who did. He knew Din’s name, knew that he had the deepest brown eyes and when he looked worried, there was a lost quality to it, like he wasn’t sure how he’d found himself somewhere so concerning. Only Boba knew that.

Leia moved on to Boba, and suspicion flickered over her features. Did she suspect it was him, or did she recognize him as a clone?

“Princess,” Boba said, before she could make the connection to the clones. Her eyes narrowed.

“You know me,” she said, and Cara came up behind her, touched Leia’s shoulder with her fingertips.

“We’ve met.” Boba said; _please don’t know any clones,_ he thought, desperately wanted her to know him only from before, only from when he was ruthless and named and maybe something besides a clone. “You’re not a fan of me.”

“Deservedly so,” Cara muttered. “Leia, this is –” she began, but Leia’s eyes were already widening in recognition;

“Boba Fett,” she said, gaze never wavering from his face. “I’m right, aren’t I?” She was still studying him, though, and not the way Cara had, not like she was completely surprised to see what he looked like. There was a recognition that seeped into him, spreading like ice. “I always wondered what you guys looked like,” she said, and Boba fought the urge to draw back, struggled not to snarl in response to the pointed cruelty. She knew. She _knew,_ and she was telling him she knew, to keep him on a leash. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, and she knew what he was.

“We have the galaxy’s craziest favor to ask you,” Cara chimed in, and Leia studied Boba a moment longer before turning back to Cara.

“You could have told me who you’re helping out,” Leia said, “I would have dropped dead on the spot from surprise, though, so I can see why you waited. I appreciate you looking out for me like that.”

Boba did his best not to look at Din, sure his face would betray the unbearable mix of fury and anxiety that twisted itself into knots in his chest. Leia had always been incredibly intuitive; no doubt it was easy for her to guess that the little-known fact that Boba Fett was nothing more than a clone was his undoing. Surely the fact that he was here at all, with Din, was telling as well. She had the key to his disintegration, and had the weapon for it. He was equally sure she didn’t know it _hurt,_ that she thought he had to be kept in line at all.

“Trust me, I can’t believe any of what’s happening. Can we fill you in?” Cara was saying.

“Sure.” Leia sighed. She’d turned her back to Din and Boba, making it clear that Cara was their representative. They kept talking as Boba looked around, jittery with the worry that someone else would recognize him as well; what if Din heard? What if he asked Boba to explain, and then Boba had to _tell_ him? Leia and Cara started to leave the room, and Boba followed alongside Din, a tension he couldn’t rid himself of making his shoulders ache.

“So she knows you?” Din asked, softly.

“Yeah. She got the last laugh, though, I’m sure Solo told her all about bumping me off, literally and figuratively.” Like Solo mattered anymore; Leia didn’t need to hold that over Boba’s head, it was useless, the whole galaxy knew about it. She knew something much worse. “I just,” Boba drew in a breath through his teeth, jaw tight. “I just want to get our kid and never see any of these people again.”

“We will.” Din’s voice was a gentle rumble. Boba felt too far away to be comforted by it.

Leia led them to a cantina, mercifully all-but empty. Din was the one people were looking at, a Mandalorian more interesting to them than Boba, and Boba was grateful that he seemed to have caught at least a sliver of luck, though he tensed every time someone’s gaze passed over him. 

Leia and Cara returned with food, and Boba felt far too sick with anxiety to consider eating anything; he listened to Cara filling Leia in on the series of events that had led them to the Resistance base. She somehow managed to keep out her distasteful feelings towards Boba, or almost any mention of him at all. According to Cara, Din had rescued a child from the Empire, met her on Sorgan, and then later returned, brought Cara with him to Nevarro, where the child was lost again.

Naturally, Leia still looked bewildered, at the end of it; she _knew_ Boba, after all. She knew what he was and what he’d done, and that this wasn’t a story he fit into. Din was perfectly at home – a Mandalorian rescuing a foundling, it was a pillar of Mandalorian history. Boba was the piece that didn’t fit, ripped out of a very different story and out of place in this one.

“There’s something else,” Boba added, when Cara had finished. Leia gave him a dubious look, like she expected him to reveal that he was about to betray them. Boba forced himself to hold her gaze. “The kid. It’s the same species as Yoda.”

“Is it also Force-sensitive?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Leia blew out a breath. “That explains the Empire’s interest in it.” There was a long, long moment where she just looked at Boba, and all of her questions were obvious – she wanted to know what _his_ interest in the child was, wanted to know why he wasn’t actually dead, wanted to know when he’d go back to acting like himself again.

“Look who it is!” A familiar voice made Boba clench his teeth before he even caught sight of the man. Like he wouldn’t recognize Han _fucking_ Solo anywhere. Han was enthusiastically greeting Cara, and wandering up after him was Luke, because of course he would be here too, to really round out Boba’s miserable afternoon. Boba could cross the whole galaxy, and still, somehow, run into Luke Skywalker.

“The kid and I just got back,” Han gestured towards Luke, who seemed as mild and wide-eyed as ever, perpetually fascinated by where he found himself.

“If he’s a kid, what does that make me?” Leia said, and Han smirked. Boba glanced towards Din, but he couldn’t tell if Din had realized who they were, if he’d ever known. “Hi, Luke. Cara, this is my brother,” Leia said, “We’ve got a bit of a strange situation going on, Han, so maybe you guys should –”

“Who’s this?” Han frowned in their direction, “Cara, I don’t know if you heard, but we’re not exactly huge fans of Mandalorians around here.”

“He wasn’t even a Mandalorian,” Cara pointed out, again, which felt unnecessary to Boba. “And, uh, about him.”

“We shouldn’t,” Leia started. Boba leaned back in his chair, looked up at Han, steeled himself as best he could.

“Solo,” he said. Han gave him a squinting look, hand drifting to the blaster at his hip. “I’m here for an apology,” Boba drawled, “or maybe just to thank you for being too incompetent to kill me on Tatooine.”

“What the _fuck?”_ Han’s blaster was out immediately, and Leia was already jumping out of her seat, reaching to push his arm back down. “Are you serious?”

The other inhabitants of the cantina made some scuffling sounds when Han drew his blaster, but they seemed to be losing interest; maybe Han did this all the time. It wouldn’t surprise Boba if this was his go-to method of conflict resolution.

“What?” Luke chimed in. He’d taken his sister’s vacated seat, and was blinking at the action in front of him, still chewing.

“This isn’t the time to be slow on the uptake, Luke,” Han said through gritted teeth; Leia still clutched his arm, and seated between them, Cara looked like she regretted coming. “Where’s the helmet?” Han jeered, “Afraid you’d get shot on sight? Or is it still in the Sarlacc pit?”

“Thought it might scare you away.”

“I kicked your ass while blind,” Han snapped, “bet I could do it with one hand tied behind my back, too. You won’t be getting back out of the hole I put you in this time.”

“What’s the matter, don’t like seeing your escaped bounty running around?” Boba smirked at him, “I know how you feel.”

“Would _someone,”_ Han gestured with the blaster around the table, only for Leia to grab for his arm again, “explain to me what this asshole is doing here?”

“It’s an extenuating circumstance,” Leia said tightly, “sit down, and we’ll tell you about it.”

“ _We?_ You on Team Fett, suddenly?” Han let her shove him into an empty chair, but his fingers remained clenched around his blaster. “I cannot wait to hear what _extenuating circumstance_ you’ve got going on,” he spit in Boba’s direction, then cast a suspicious look at Din. “What are you, Fett 2.0?”

“Just a bounty hunter,” Din said. Han raised his eyebrows, waved his free hand in a gesture that clearly said _elaborate._ Boba struggled not to lunge across the table and choke Han for ever thinking Din could be like him. Was it a dig about there being other clones? Din could never be, Din was unique in the galaxy, his gentleness unmatched, his capacity for kindness unlike anyone else’s, and his eyes were a shade of brown never before seen, the only time darkness could ever look so warm. There was _no one_ like Din, and how dare Han insinuate there ever could be?

“Cara needs our help getting a Force-sensitive child back from the Empire,” Leia told Han, standing behind Cara with her hands on her hips. “We’re going to go and see if we can get any leads on where they may have taken it.”

“Alright.” Han kept eying Boba across the table. He clearly had more questions, but Leia was already striding away across the cantina purposefully, leaving them no choice but to follow. Han trailed behind, clearly so he could keep watch on Boba.

“Do we really need their help?” Boba muttered to Din, as Leia led them down a hallway, past another hangar, up a half flight of stairs. “You shouldn’t have brought me. They don’t want to help.” How wasn’t this obvious to Din yet? Boba was always going to be the problem. He didn’t deserve _not_ to be the problem.

“They still will,” Din said softly, “and I’m not going anywhere without you.”

 _Promise,_ Boba almost blurted out, _even if you find out, even if you know there are other clones, let me be the one you don’t leave behind._

Leia brought them to a small, secluded office that overlooked the hangar. She pulled up a screen and began tapping, Cara leaned in beside her to watch. Han lurked in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and Luke sat in the empty desk chair, and though his face didn’t mirror Han’s hostility, he was still studying Boba with an almost more alarming intensity.

“Force-sensitive kid, huh?” Luke eventually said. “Like… it’s your kid?” he looked to Din. “Did they take it from you?”

“Not exactly. The Imperials found it, and we took it from them.”

“So you’re the real kidnappers, here,” Han drawled. Boba gave a small snarl.

“We weren’t going to let them _keep_ it.”

“Right, the plan is to kidnap it back, and, what, turn it in for a bounty?” Han asked. “I get the sense that’s why you found the kid in the first place. Couple of bounty hunters, a valuable kid, it’s not exactly a lot of dots to connect.” Din wasn’t _like that,_ Boba wanted to protest, furious at the implication Din would ever treat the child like a _bounty._

“And then what?” Luke chimed in. “Like… are you giving it back to its family?”

“We don’t know where it came from,” Din said, crossed his arms. Boba leaned against the wall, couldn’t keep the furious look off his face. “Someone had already taken it from there when we got to it.”

“Where was Yoda from?” Boba asked, to a startled look from Luke. “The kid, it’s like him. Small. Green. The ears,” he waved a hand, one finger tracing a triangle shape in the air, as close as he could get to a description without choking up. His kid, with its expressive little ears and curious expressions, out there with the Empire – “Where?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are there more like him?”

“I don’t know,” Luke said.

“Useless,” Boba muttered under his breath. He still didn’t see why they _needed_ these guys for anything. All they were doing was making it worse.

“It’s a tiny Yoda?” Han asked, eyebrows rising again. “Are you kidding me? What the hell is going on, anymore?”

“You’re going to bring it to the Jedi, right?” Luke asked, and Boba stiffened at the thought, narrowed his eyes at Luke. The _Jedi?_ The Jedi, who had murdered his father in front of him and left him there alone to deal with it, Boba was supposed to just hand the kid over to them? Maybe it _was_ a good thing he was being given this plan only in gradual pieces, and Cara had been right not to throw it all at him at once; he’d never felt so fragile.

“We’re not bringing it anywhere.”

“But you have to. Right?” Luke looked at Han for confirmation, and then Leia, though she was ignoring them as she read through files with Cara. “You can’t just… right? It’s force-sensitive.”

“It’s a _baby,”_ Boba said sharply. “We’re not _giving_ it to anyone.” _My baby,_ he kept almost saying, anything else feeling wrong on his tongue, _my baby, it’s my baby._

“You don’t know anything about the Force,” Luke said. “You couldn’t ever train it.”

“So I should just hand it over to you?” Boba spat, “you didn’t even know it was out there. _We_ took it from them. It would still be with them, if not –”

“Looks like it _is_ with them, despite your heroic rescue,” Han rolled his eyes. “Since, y’know, you no longer _have_ the kid.”

“If it can’t be with its kind, it should be with the Jedi,” Luke said, insistent. “You can’t take care of a kid who can use the Force. It needs training. The Force can be dangerous.”

“We’re not giving it to the Jedi,” Boba said flatly.

“You _have_ to. It needs to be raised by its own kind,” Luke said, “Force users. It needs that.”

“It doesn’t _need_ its own kind, no one does,” Boba snapped, and when Luke started to interject, pushed himself off the wall. “They didn’t come for it. One orphan in the galaxy doesn’t mean anything to anyone. _No one_ came for it. No one _ever_ _does._ I’m not handing it over to some _fucking Jedi,_ just because it can use the Force. We don’t owe anything to the people who didn’t come for it.”

“Yeah, much better to let it get raised by a murderer,” Han said, and Boba rounded on him, though Han didn’t even stand straighter, just smirked at Boba, shoulder against the door. “Like the galaxy needs another one of you,” he said, and – and did he _know?_ He couldn’t possible know. Had Leia told him? Boba struggled to get a grip on the panicked fury flooding his system, didn’t know how to respond in a way that wouldn’t immediately be incriminating. Han would tell Din in an instant, if he knew what it would do to Boba.

“I’m _trying_ to read!” Leia barked, and they all turned towards her. She was still facing the screen, scrolling rapidly through pages. “You want to know where the Resistance is hiding this doctor? Then shut up and let me read.”

“But,” Luke began.

“Shut up.”

“They’re going to keep the kid,” Luke said, and Leia finally turned, looked first at him and then at Din and Boba. “Come on,” Luke said, quieter, “it should be with its kind, whether that’s wherever Yoda came from or with the Jedi.”

“Luke,” Leia said, very soft, “what if someone had said that about us, hmm? Where would we be then?” She stared at Boba, expression unreadable. “Or what if our father had gone to the people he thought were his enemies, and asked for help?”

The room fell silent, and Leia turned back to the screen. Boba shifted uncomfortably, crossed his arms across his chest and studied the floor. Everything in him itched to escape, to get as far away as possible from this at-any-moment disaster. What if Leia told Din, _warned_ him? What if she thought Boba deserved to lose Din, too? He couldn’t even guess what Din’s reaction would be, because Din was forgiving but he was also trusting, and he might have expected Boba to have told him this. What if he was _hurt,_ that Boba hadn’t?

“Okay, I gotta know,” Han said, and Boba clenched his teeth, already irritated.

“Jetpack,” he snapped.

“Really? Because I feel like that would have been more instantaneous. How long you been kicking around the galaxy, anyways?” Every question made Boba more tense, shoulders trying to hunch protectively. How long _had_ it been since he escaped? Hardly any time at all, though he felt like he’d been dragged through another lifetime.

“A year,” he lied. Han snorted.

“Must have been keeping a pretty low profile.”

“That’s the idea.”

“It wasn’t a year,” Luke chimed in, and Han arched an eyebrow curiously, already smirking. “Wow, you didn’t get out until… really recently.” His eyes widened. Boba didn’t know how he was figuring it out, how to make him _stop._ Luke couldn’t just let him have this? Let him have some fucking semblance of dignity, that he didn’t spend a year trapped underground, being spoken to like –

“You have no way of knowing that,” Boba heard the suggestion of a tremble in his voice and tried to tamp it down. “How would you possibly know?”

“The Force lets me sense things,” Luke shrugged. Like Boba didn’t have enough to hate about the Force already, it let them, what, _sense emotions?_ What – what did that mean about the kid? Did it _know_ what Boba had done? Boba felt stricken at the thought, but surely it wasn’t true. The child had still wanted him to hold it. Still reached for him when it cried. Still fell asleep in his arms.

“Recently, huh?” Han smirked, “Some big bad bounty hunter you are, getting stuck underground for a whole year. Hiding from Vader, because you knew he’d kill you for letting us get away?”

“I wasn’t hiding from shit.” He’d have _preferred_ facing Vader, if given the choice. Anything but what happened to him, anything but the long, hard look he’d had to take at himself, realizing there was nothing there –

“Oh, right, you were _trapped_ ,” Han snapped his fingers in mock realization, “You didn’t have a _choice_ about being trapped for an entire year.”

“Rugosa,” Leia’s voice rang out through the room, effectively pulling Boba back from the edge of the pit he was suddenly looking into. “He’s in a safe house on Rugosa.”

“Right, well,” Luke stood, as though _he_ were about go somewhere.

“Sit the fuck down, you aren’t coming,” Boba snapped, to a wildly incredulous look from Luke.

“Of _course_ I’m going. You don’t think _you’re_ going?” Luke looked expectantly at his sister, “He’s not going, right?”

“All I said was the safe house is on Rugosa,” Leia was already looking back at the screen, scanning for more information. Boba cast an imploring look at Din, begging to just _leave,_ but Din gave a small shake of his head. It was the logical thing, Boba knew, not to burn bridges before they left, but he just wanted to _leave._ He didn’t want to defend himself, to have to ask their permission, to ask for enough forgiveness that they let him have this.

“Does no one see a problem with this?” Luke asked the room at large, and when his sister didn’t pay attention, he turned to Cara for backup. Cara, at least, had the wherewithal to look torn. She _knew_ the kid was Boba and Din’s, she _knew that._

“The kid’s ours, we’re going to get it back,” Boba said, and it was ridiculous, having to say something so obvious, something that _had_ to be true. “We didn’t come here to just hand over the whole thing to _you.”_

“Does _no one_ see a problem?” Luke asked again.

“What, you don’t think Boba Fett would be a good parent?” Han’s voice was mocking, overly delighted, “What makes you think _that?”_

“The kid’s a mini Yoda,” Luke said, although he’d never even _seen_ the kid before, and had no right to act like he was such an authority. “You aren’t even Force-sensitive.”

“Just hand it off to a mercenary, what could go wrong,” Han kept going, “Between you, and the only guy in the galaxy gullible enough to stick with you, what could go wrong? How _did_ you convince him to join up with you, anyways?”

“Leia,” Luke tried to insist, was still ignored. “Does no one see a problem with this?” He looked at Boba beseechingly, as though Boba might suddenly agree with him. Boba was still reeling from what Han had said, couldn’t put together an answer. Din wasn’t _gullible._ He – he wasn’t being _tricked_ into tolerating Boba, Din _liked_ him. Boba was _his,_ and Din was _okay_ with that _._ “You guys aren’t – you know! _Trained_ for this, or anything.”

“You’re right, let’s send you instead. The true professional,” Boba snorted, couldn’t bear to address Han, to hear about Din again, “Lots of fraught negotiations with the Empire, back on Tatooine? Conduct many rescue operations for Jawa hostages?”

“We send _you_ , you might end up joining them again,” Han added, but even that was better than him talking about Din. “Either that, or you’ll kill the guy. You don’t have many tricks besides rolling over for the Empire and attacking.”

“Luke,” Cara said, “come on. You can’t just jump in and take this, okay?”

“Why not? I knew Yoda.”

“I knew him,” Boba said, “does that make me qualified, too?”

“Well, no. But you need a Jedi, obviously. The kid can use the _Force._ You need someone _trained.”_

“To do what?” Cara had her hands on her hips, scowling in Luke’s direction. “What’s the Force going to do that two bounty hunters with blasters can’t? The kid doesn’t even know you, Luke.”

“So?”

“I don’t think it likes strangers,” Cara said. “It Force choked me once when it misunderstood a game. It’s not just going to _go_ with you.”

“It’s a baby,” Boba stepped closer to Luke, and Luke edged backwards. At least he was still _afraid_ of Boba, at least Boba still had that. He wasn’t enjoying the discovery that Luke and Han also had a seemingly endless arsenal of things to say that _hurt._ “Not a Force vessel.”

“Sure, but it’s _also_ a Force vessel. I mean, technically.”

“Yeah, it can be two things,” Han agreed, “you know, like you’re an asshole _and_ a failure.”

“Han, I really don’t think that’s helping,” Cara said, surprisingly; Boba gave her a suspicious look, but she didn’t follow it up with anything disparaging.

“What? I’m supposed to believe he’s one of the good guys now? I knew him a year ago, and I don’t think he could have changed that much!”

“You haven’t changed either,” Boba snarled back, “You’re still a guy who deserves to be in carbonite.” It wasn’t like he _expected_ someone who hated him to see anything positive, anything changed, but if it was really there, if it was undeniable, _wouldn’t_ someone have?

“Yeah, and you’re still licking the boots of the first guy in a mask you come across who’ll put you on a leash!”

“Enough,” Leia said, sharply. Luke turned towards her immediately, and Han sent a last glare Boba’s way before looking at Leia. “They’re leaving. We are staying.” Boba was fully ready to argue until he realized she was _agreeing_ with him. She was letting him and Din leave to find their child.

“Leia,” Luke started to protest, and Leia shot him a look.

“Luke,” she retorted.

“ _Leia.”_ More emphatic, as he gave her wide-eyed looks and non-subtle looks towards Boba with raised eyebrows. Boba snarled under his breath.

“ _Luke.”_ Leia matched his emphasis. Han tipped his head back and sighed, clearly waiting it out.

“ _Leia!”_

“They’re leaving,” Leia repeated. “We are staying. They’ll keep us updated, and we’ll get involved again if they need us.” Luke scowled, mumbling under his breath, and Cara leaned in to talk to him, placating.

“The sooner I get to stop looking at your face, the better,” Han said to Boba, “You should keep the helmet on like your friend over there.”

“Have _you_ considered a helmet?” Boba said, flat, “You have a face that makes people want to punch you. Can’t be good for your health.”

“He’s obviously not keeping you around for your looks,” Han said, “Personal expendable bounty hunter, maybe? Looks like you were pretty replaceable to the Empire, after all. Can’t be hard to find a better version of you.” _Did_ he know? Boba couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t tell if Han was using it for subtle jabs or if he was just getting lucky every time. But – a _better version_ of him? How _wasn’t_ that a dig at Boba being a clone? Boba clenched his teeth and fought not to respond, because all that would do would tip off Han that he’d hit Boba where it really _hurt._

“ _Werlaara,”_ he heard Din say, and Boba looked to him hopefully, in desperate need of a lifeline.

It didn’t come. Din said something in Mando’a that Boba couldn’t understand, because he was a clone and not a Mandalorian, because Han was right and he was just a replaceable thing with nothing special about it. Boba just wanted to _belong_ to Din, and when Din spoke to him in Mando’a, all it did was remind Boba that he didn’t belong, even if Din did have a soft, intimate name for him in that language. Did it matter, if Boba didn’t understand what it meant? Did he even deserve it? He was Din’s _clan_ now, but how could he be, when there was this barrier between them? Din was trying to bring him closer, and Boba couldn’t understand their language.

“We’re leaving,” Din announced, and that at least let Boba breathe a little easier. “We’ll send a report afterwards.” Din started for the door and Boba all-but bolted after him, exhaled in relief as soon as they were out the door. Thankfully, Han and Luke didn’t follow, and he could only hear Cara and Leia’s voices following them down the hallway. Leia only followed them to the mouth of the tunnel, then turned to say goodbye to Din.

“Let me know what he says. I’m here to help. I want what’s best for the child, too,” she said, and the change of opinion made Boba suspicious, nervous.

“Even if it’s us?” Boba couldn’t help but ask, though he knew he should be slinking into the background, not ruining their chances.

“It very well may be. Just like all problems aren’t gigantic and galaxy-scale,” she said, looking directly at Din, “all solutions aren’t to bring in the entire cavalry. Sometimes they’re small. Sometimes, they’re letting a foundling stay found.”

She still hadn’t told Din. Boba swallowed back the urge to thank her for it, for letting him keep this a while longer. Maybe she could see he held no ill will towards Din and the child, even though Leia seeing that would be an enemy seeing a spark of good in him, as impossible as that sounded. 

Cara accompanied them back outside, though she lingered by the entrance to the base and Din seemed to already understand that she wasn’t coming back with them.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I think you’re right about this being part of something bigger. I thought I could stay for a while and help Leia. I know we want the kid back, but someone has to deal with whatever the bigger thing happening is. Thought I could help, and I can rejoin you guys once we know what’s happening next.”

“She needs the help,” Boba muttered, “look at the idiots she’s got around her.”

“That’s who she chose?” Din asked, “Han?”

“She says that he has this – drive, or whatever, to answer the call for help. She seems some kind of nobility in him.” Cara shook her head, “ _Leia_ is the noble one. Han goes along with whatever’s happening around him, and he’s just lucky that it happened to be something heroic and important. Leia _looks_ for it.” She turned to Boba, and he blinked at her in surprise, unused to her looking at him without reproach or confusion. Surely she thought he was Din’s equivalent of Han, a voluntarily undertaken burden. “Luke’s got some fucking nerve, too. He’s a good guy, I _know_ he is, but he’s got nothing but perfect-world solutions. Like sure, it’d be great if the kid wasn’t taken from its own kind and could go back to them, but you know what? We don’t know where the hell that is. They’re probably dead, or they don’t even _exist.”_

“Does seem strange no one’s ever seen another of its kind besides Yoda,” Boba said, half waiting for her to snatch back the olive branch. _You don’t understand why he chose me, either,_ he was afraid to remind her.

“Exactly! Luke’s always been lucky. He doesn’t understand what it’s like not to be lucky.” That was an accurate description if Boba ever heard one. Luke always seemed to expect everything to fall perfectly into place, like he’d never witnessed incessant destruction, never had to just keep living through relentless misfortune.

It had begun raining very slightly, only a slight mist making its way through the dense foliage above. Boba was more than ready to leave the planet. How was it worse, that this was nothing like the desert? He felt out of place, rejected by his surroundings. 

“He needs to remember that he got lucky. Leia’s right, if they’d been given back to _their_ family, everything would have been really different.”

“Why?” Din asked.

“Their mother died giving birth to them,” Cara said, turned back to Boba. “Their father became Darth Vader.”

All Boba could do was stare at her. It was too much to repaint, to understand in an entirely new way, and it all funneled down to a single point: when Vader sent Boba to find out the name of the pilot who had destroyed the Death Star, Boba had come back and said _Skywalker._ The galaxy had changed the moment he said it. Boba had to reel back from it. Vader was their father. Vader was their father, and Luke thought _Boba_ would be bad for a child.

“Their father is Darth _fucking_ Vader, and Luke has the audacity to say _I’m_ a bad parent?” he finally spat out, and Cara made a sound like a laugh. “I can’t believe this. He thinks I’m worse than Darth Vader, who destroyed his own kid’s home planet and tried to rule the galaxy. I’m not that fucking bad.” It stung, and he tried not to show it to Cara. He wasn’t worse than that. He wasn’t. He still didn’t understand why Leia had changed her mind and let them leave to find the child alone; _what if our father had gone to the people he thought were his enemies, and asked for help,_ she’d said, and what if Vader _had?_ What did it say about Boba, that he’d done what Vader hadn’t?

“Exactly,” Cara said, and Boba blinked at her, hadn’t expected her to agree with him. “You guys should get going,” Cara said, “Tell us what happens. I’ll come to wherever you are as soon as you need me.”

“Thanks,” Din said, and when Boba looked at him, Din tilted his head towards Cara; Boba nodded.

“See you, Cara,” he said, and started towards where they’d left the Crest, kept looking back over his shoulder as he left. Was Din still someone else she looked at with frustrated confusion, wanting to know _why him?_ Or maybe seeing Boba fall apart had made her understand why Din had chosen him, and that was why she wasn’t scrutinizing Din the same as Leia. Maybe it had made everything make sense, to see that he was a wreck and Din had chosen him, a hurting and broken thing, because _Din_ was the one with a drive to answer calls for help no one else ever heard. Din had a stillness that allowed him to listen, to hear a never-again legend who desperately needed him, calling Din’s name though he hadn’t yet known it, on a planet far away.

_If you knew everything, would you still have come,_ Boba wanted to ask Din, but of course Din would have. It didn’t matter, that he kept finding out worse and worse things about what Boba had done; Din would still have saved him. It wasn’t the forgiveness Boba needed, and he was realizing, as more and more improbable people looked at him with something approaching kindness – it didn’t matter, if Leia could look at the bounty hunter who had worked for Vader and see a sliver of redemption, if Din could forgive him his ruthless past enough to take it on as part of his clan.

None of it mattered if Boba couldn’t find within himself whatever made him forgivable to them. He _couldn’t find it_. He could accept that Din wanted him as part of his clan, could cling to the way the child reached for him, but being something to others wasn’t the answer he’d always thought it would be. He could be a companion to Din, a father to the child, but when he looked at himself, with helpless and tearful frustration, all he could see was _clone._


	18. Chapter 18

Boba felt like he was drifting, in a spinning-out sort of way, aimless and unanchored but weighed down. He programmed in the flight plan, got the ship ready for takeoff, and then settled in to wait for Din to come back. The only sound in the cockpit was the steady beat of rain against the viewscreen; Boba stared out at it, knee bouncing with nervous energy. He wasn’t even sure what _part_ of this had set off a stumbling down-spiral.

It was too much to understand all at once, the implications all far-reaching, endlessly damaging. Boba had been the one to find out Luke was Vader’s son, and what had that _done_ to the galaxy? If he hadn’t done it, could anyone else have? If he’d refused, if he’d chosen to leave the identity he’d built for himself as a bounty hunter, could anyone else have pulled it off? Maybe Vader never would have known.

Even Din returning didn’t fully quell Boba’s anxiety. Din joined him in the cockpit, sat in the pilot’s seat; still, watching him remove his helmet felt illicit, almost like a mistake, even as Boba’s heart ached at the familiar sight of Din’s face.

Din didn’t say anything, as he flipped the last couple of switches and powered on the engines, guided the ship through its takeoff. Once the streaking stars of hyperspace replaced the rivulets of rain on the viewscreen, Din turned back to him. 

“Why did she change her mind?” Boba finally said, because he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and maybe that made it the crux of everything. Leia knew, she _knew_ he was a clone, how could she see anything else in him? What was she seeing that he _wasn’t?_ “She knows everything. How could she change her mind?” How could he? He wanted to know, to _learn_ from it, because if people who hated him could see something redeeming, he wanted to beg, _show me what it is._

“I told her it isn’t just a foundling,” Din said, “I told her it’s ours. Maybe that reassured her about our intentions.” Din paused for a moment. “What they were saying, about Leia and Luke’s father,” Din started, and he hesitated again. Boba fidgeted, flexing and curling his hands, tried not to think about everything it meant, everything he’d _done._

“I’m the one who told him. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t realize – he hired me to find the pilot who had destroyed the Death Star, and all I could give him was the pilot’s name, I told him it was Skywalker, but that – that was enough to start everything that happened next.” He knew Din didn’t know the full history, and almost hated that fact – was it Boba’s responsibility to tell him? To tell Din everything he didn’t know, even if it made Din hate him? How could it possibly fall on Boba, to tell the man he loved all the worst things he’d done?

“The only thing that makes me a fucking original is that I’m the worst one,” Boba muttered under his breath. “Fuck, I hate those three. And they haven’t even _done_ anything. They helped us, even! They have no reason to, they _know_ what I’ve done, and they’re not wrong to hate me. I just – I hate how they look at me.” It had become a confusing jumble, leaving him nothing stable to stand on: they looked at him and saw him as a clone, that would never change, but Leia had seen something _different_ in him suddenly and Boba didn’t know what it was. What _counted?_

“What about how I look at you?” Din asked, his voice quiet. Boba looked up at him, but he didn’t have the words to tell Din, to apologize without saying _can it matter, if I can’t see it too? “_ You have to see that.”

“You don’t,” Boba said, and the words broke in the middle. “You can’t.” No matter what Din saw in him, Boba had been fooling himself, thinking it _meant_ something, when Din didn’t know the truth. Whatever Din thought Boba could be, whatever redemption he might have found there, it had no foundation to stand on. Boba was _nothing._

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din said, that word Boba didn’t know, the one that was his but meant _nothing_ to him, and how fitting that was. Din’s eyes were filled with worry again, the only way he ever seemed to look at Boba, like Din was always just a little bit afraid for him. Boba _wanted_ him to understand, but he – he wanted Din to still like him.

Din said something else in Mando’a, something quiet and soft, and all it did was prove that _he didn’t know._ It was the first time Din had said so much to him in Mando’a while Boba could actually see his face, there was such gentle affection on his face and it made Boba realize that thinking they were both Mandalorians _comforted_ Din. The thought had never occurred to Boba before, but the look on Din’s face made it suddenly obvious, made everything suddenly so much worse. Boba wasn’t just hurting himself, by keeping the truth a secret. He was going to hurt Din, who looked at Boba like he felt like home, Boba’s continued silence shielding him from the guilty truth: _you are not home,_ Din would hear, the moment Boba confessed, and Din would lose a safe place all over again.

“No,” Boba choked out, and he had to tell Din, he had to, but the words were so hard to force out. “I can’t –” Boba started, but already there was hurt on Din’s face, his eyes darkening with confusion, and _oh,_ he was going to be so hurt when he found out that Boba had lied to him, that he was just a clone and could never be a Mandalorian, could never be a real part of his clan, could never be _anything,_ and suddenly, Boba couldn’t speak. He dropped his head into his hands, took a shuddering breath. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he wasn’t _ready_ to lose Din, he loved Din so much that losing him was going to be the end of the entire world and Boba just wasn’t _ready._

“Hey,” Din said, and his voice was more subdued, steady, but only because it had been flattened. “We’ll focus on the kid, okay? It needs us.”

Boba lifted his head, rubbed his face and sat back, head tipped against the seat and shoulders slumped. Din wasn’t looking at him the same way anymore, and it felt like Boba was starting to lose him, piece by piece.

 _Not yet,_ he wanted to beg, _not him. Not yet._

Din didn’t say anything, for the next few hours. He left the cockpit for a while, returned only briefly to check on the autopilot, and then left again; Boba stayed put, couldn’t find the energy to move. He just didn’t want to handle this _now;_ he’d had to face people who recognized him as a clone, and he fucking missed his baby and was so worried about it that he felt sick. He couldn’t _handle_ anything else. He was even struggling to get used to how much seeing Din’s face made him want to fall into Din’s arms, Boba was a mess and couldn’t handle _one more thing._ And not – not _this_ thing.

Boba never knew when it was actually evening; he never stayed on any planet long enough to become accustomed to any particular day cycle. It made him unsure of when the answer to where he should sleep would come; he didn’t want to assume he’d be allowed in Din’s bed again, but he desperately hoped he would. Maybe he could ask; he wanted it so badly that asking almost felt doable, for once. He’d spent the day in such a drawn-out state of misery that all he wanted was to fall asleep beside Din, to not feel terrified when he flinched awake and found himself alone.

When Din returned to the cockpit, Boba was almost ready to ask, though his heart began to race as soon as he heard Din climbing up the ladder. _Can I sleep in your bed with you,_ he mouthed, trying to convince himself it was possible to say them out loud, _can I sleep in your bed with you._ Din appeared in the doorway, but he still had one foot on the ladder.

“I’m going to sleep,” Din said quietly, and Boba took a shaky breath. _Can I sleep in your bed with you,_ he could say it, he could – but then Din was leaving again. Boba wilted, resigned himself to sleeping in the cockpit, but after the brief promise of sleeping beside Din, it felt worse than usual. He dimmed the lights, then turned them back up a little when the darkness made him feel shaky, shifted around in the chair until he found a semi-comfortable position, became hyper-aware of the closeness of the walls around him and had to turn the other way.

He tried to tell himself that the reason he couldn’t sleep was because sleeping in the chair made his back hurt, but he knew it wasn’t true. He was afraid to fall asleep; of all things to be afraid of, of all the most pathetic, stupid things – he just wanted Din to be beside him again. It had almost felt like he’d done something _wrong,_ though, and that was why Din hadn’t let him come to bed. Maybe he could tell Boba was keeping something from him. Maybe Boba had said the wrong thing in response to whatever he’d said in Mando’a. He hadn’t been prepared to find out how Din _looked_ at him while speaking Mando’a.

After a couple hours, Boba couldn’t take it anymore. Din had looked almost _hurt,_ and maybe not telling him was hurting him as much as telling him would; Boba had to tell him. He pushed himself up, crept tentatively down the ladder. If Din was asleep, Boba wouldn’t wake him up, but maybe he was still awake, or maybe he’d wake up if he heard Boba coming over, and maybe he’d let Boba come into bed with him and tell him there, where it felt the safest. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much, to say _I’m a clone_ if Din was that close to him, maybe _being_ a clone wouldn’t hurt so badly, if Din was holding him –

The door was closed.

Boba stood frozen in place, staring at it. Had Din _ever_ slept with the door closed before? Maybe he already knew, or maybe Boba’s clear reluctance to open up to him had finally hurt Din enough that he was through letting Boba be close to him. Boba bit his lip to stop it from trembling, though he couldn’t do much about the tears that welled in his eyes. He just hadn’t been _ready_ to open up yet, it was a terrifying prospect, to tell the man he loved that he was nothing but a clone. Boba was too afraid to do it.

He slunk back to the cockpit, where he did his best to sleep. When he finally did fall asleep, it was to dream of a facility with tree roots snaking through the walls, and he was so, so lost; he was always frantic, always too tired to keep running, in these nightmares. He was always in the same facility, with its changing walls and changing floors, and he always knew what it was hiding.

It was getting darker and darker around him; when he looked over his shoulder down the long hallway, the end was pitch black, and when he turned back around, he found himself running headlong into darkness, and it didn’t feel like escaping.

“Have you suffered more?” a familiar voice hissed, “Do you have more to relive, for the next thousand years?”

Boba jerked awake shaking, breathing hard and on the verge of a hysterical panic he couldn’t tamp down. He curled in on himself, head in his hands, and when he heard whimpering, it took a while to realize it was coming from him.

Din didn’t reappear in the cockpit until they were close enough to land on Rugosa. Boba had been drifting in and out of shallow sleep since the early hours of the morning, miserable with the need for real sleep and his inability to achieve it. He’d never had his two worst nightmares merge into one before, and it wasn’t a welcome development; it was hard not to feel a tiny pang of resentment, that _this_ was the night he wasn’t allowed to sleep beside Din, but he knew that wasn’t fair. Din didn’t owe him that, not if Boba had just hurt him somehow. It was almost _worse,_ knowing this was something Din would have given him before, that Boba wasn’t being deprived of it because he didn’t deserve it. He had before; he’d just hurt Din so badly that Din had drawn away from him. It was the most normal Boba had ever felt, and he was miserable.

“Hey,” Din said softly, when he slid past Boba to get to the pilot’s seat. “Worried about the kid?”

“Yeah. Keep reminding myself it’s not gonna be there at the safe house,” Boba said, because at least that he could talk about, the undercurrent of worry that writhed beneath everything. This was all _too much,_ all at once, and he wanted to plead for less. “Feel like it’s still going to feel disappointing, though.”

“We’ll be closer,” Din said; he didn’t sound quite the same as usual, and though Boba didn’t know what exactly he’d done, he knew he deserved the slight guardedness in Din’s voice.

“Yeah,” Boba agreed softly, slouched down further in his seat. “Closer.”

There was something strange about Rugosa, as they flew over it to land in the small spaceport. Something about the seemingly endless forest of land coral, the number of spaceports compared to the lack of cities or structures. Boba was restless with uncertainty as he followed Din through the oddly quiet forest; small winged creatures flitted overhead, startling Boba every time they moved.

“Where is this place?” Boba eventually asked, when he couldn’t take the silence anymore. Was Din always this quiet? He didn’t think so, or at least, it was a different sort of quiet. “Is this house in the middle of nowhere, or something?”

“I’m not sure,” Din said, led them slightly further, past a thick collection of coral, and Boba stopped short. His body knew what it was before his mind caught up, and he was struggling to breathe before he even registered what was before him: a tunnel. An underground tunnel, and Din was walking towards it, like he was going to go underground, go into the dark and _what if he never came out –_

“Not _now,”_ Boba gasped out in protest, as if he could ever make this stop, already seized by the uprising of panic that had a strangle hold on him. “Fuck, fuck, _no –”_ He bent over with his hands on his knees, heart slamming against his ribcage, and Din was going to _see,_ he was going to fucking _see,_ but Boba couldn’t make it stop, knew he was supposed to count to five but couldn’t manage it when Din was standing so close to the tunnel he might just fall in –

“What happened?” Din was at his side in an instant, his hands moving over Boba’s shoulders and his back, like Din couldn’t figure out what was happening to him. Because nothing was, _nothing,_ Boba was losing it over _nothing._

“Nothing,” Boba choked, “Nothing. Shit. Nothing.” Din was going to think he was a fucking _mess,_ falling apart for no reason, sobbing and shaking just because he’d seen a tunnel, but it was _just like before_ and if it was like before, it would _happen again_ and it would _happen to Din –_

“What do you mean, nothing?!” Din’s voice was sharp, and Boba gave a sobbing little whimper. He was sorry, he was _sorry,_ he couldn’t help it but he was so fucking scared and he couldn’t explain it. Din’s hands were tight on Boba’s shoulders, but then he was loosening his grip like he was about to let go. “Should we – ” He took a step _towards it._

“ _No,”_ Boba gasped, “Don’t, don’t go in! Din!” Din would never come back, he would be trapped, it would keep him for a thousand years –

“Okay, it’s okay,” Din squeezed Boba’s shoulders lightly, “Okay. You’re okay.” He sounded frantic himself, and that was _worse,_ Boba couldn’t stop shaking apart. “You’re fine, everything’s fine. I’m here, you’re fine.” Boba squeezed his eyes shut, tried to just focus on Din’s voice. “It’s okay,” Din kept saying, “We’re alright. I’ve got you. We’re okay.”

Boba took a hitching breath, tried again to count backwards from five, tried not to think of IG-11 walking into the lava, the self-destruction – he tried again, started at five.

“It’s okay,” Din’s deep voice was lulling, steady, “I’ve got you. We’re okay. We’re okay.”

It felt _endless._ Boba kept trying to stop, tried to let himself be grounded by the feel of Din’s hands on his shoulders and the memory of IG-11’s calm voice counting, but he couldn’t convince his body that he wasn’t back there, caught between his memories of the dark and his nightmare expanding on it, he _hated this,_ Din was watching and already angry at him and Boba was a hysterical wreck and for nothing, _nothing,_ he’d escaped, why didn’t it let him feel like he’d _escaped?_

“We’re okay,” Din kept saying, and he was lying, he couldn’t fool Boba, not with the way his fingers tightened on Boba’s shoulders, transmitting his concern.

Gradually, gradually, Boba’s breathing slowed back to normal. He forced himself to straighten, though he couldn’t make himself look up at Din; he couldn’t imagine the look on Din’s face and just trying made him feel unsteady, sick with embarrassment. Din still hadn’t let go of his shoulders. Din hadn’t wanted Boba in his bed, and now he was watching Boba fall apart? The earlier rejection made it so much worse, made Boba want to curl away and hide.

“I’m fine,” Boba tried, though his voice was hoarse from the wrenching sobs, and didn’t sound very convincing.

“What? How is this fine?” The sudden sharpness of his voice made Boba recoil. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. This just – happens.” He was broken, he was just _broken,_ he didn’t know how to explain it. One day, something had happened to him that he couldn’t walk away from, he didn’t understand _why._ He heard Din take a deep breath.

“Please. Please tell me.” His hands were still on Boba’s shoulders.

“It’s,” Boba gestured vaguely towards the tunnel without looking at it. “Underground. I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me. It’s like every time I see a pit, I think I’m back there.”

“It’s happened before?” Din asked, and it felt like defeat, like Boba hadn’t actually gotten away with hiding it from Din after all. Boba nodded.

“With the mudhorn.” He looked down, swallowed hard and tried not to think about it. “You went in, and I lost it.” There were others, there were _many_ others, but thinking about it was making his head swim. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, “It’ll probably go away eventually.” It sounded less likely the more often he had to say it. He felt permanently rearranged.

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, and in the midst of everything, it was a brief speck of hope; whatever Boba had done to make Din shut off from him, maybe it wasn’t permanent.

“I can still go,” Boba said, straightened as best he could. If Din was going to forgive him, he wasn’t going to also be a disaster, and make himself that much harder for Din to like.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Din said quietly, and Boba’s first instinct was to be so perfectly wounded by Din’s softness, his kindness, and then he heard what Din was saying. Din didn’t know; Din really didn’t know, and Boba had been feeling so _understood_ by him, but if Din didn’t know this, how _did_ he see Boba? If all this time, he’d been seeing Boba as unhurt, unscathed – that wasn’t Boba at all. Din didn’t know he was a clone, didn’t know he couldn’t understand Mando’a and, Boba was reluctantly realizing, didn’t know what a wreck he was. It was to be suddenly set adrift, to recognize himself as a ghost, overshadowed by his own legend.

“Let’s go.” Boba couldn’t bear to talk about it anymore. “Then we can get out of here and find the kid.” He took a few steps towards the tunnel, though it made his heart beat more quickly. Din went ahead to lead the way, though Boba wasn’t sure if that made it any easier.

Boba hated it. All he could see was the Sarlacc pit, the dark, encroaching walls and the damp air and the voice he’d heard just last night in his dreams, waiting for him. _I can’t,_ he wanted to beg Din, to grab his elbow and _beg_ to leave, but Din didn’t even know Boba had been struggling, all this time, and felt too far away to reach.

He tried IG-11’s method with stubborn resolve, fixed his thoughts on counting backwards and then forwards, breathing in time with it, though he couldn’t stop himself from edging closer to Din until he was right at Din’s elbow. He couldn’t quite manage to get all the way through the five count before his breathing hitched, over and over.

Logically, the cavern was nothing like the pit. It housed an entire city, but no matter how high the ceiling, Boba _knew_ it was up there. He was underground, surrounded, and even if he lost sight of the cave walls around them, he couldn’t stop _feeling_ them. He could pay attention to nothing but the direction back out, hyper focused on how to escape, and even as he failed to register any of the buildings or people they passed, he noticed when they took several turns that kept them static in relation to the tunnel and brought them back to the same spot.

“Are we lost?” he asked. Din flinched, and the tiny movement made Boba’s awareness widen a little, take in the busy street around them, the sudden crush of sound.

“What?” 

“We came this way already,” Boba said, tilted his head towards the corner. He knew; if they went left, and straight forwards, and then turned right and then left again, they would be back at the tunnel. They kept passing this way. Boba tried not to think about how far away from the surface they were.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with you,” Din said suddenly, “You said – but there’s really not.” Boba shook his head, hated the steady sinking of his heart. Din really didn’t understand, and he felt all the more embarrassed for having to insist on this, to force Din to see all the worst parts of himself. Why couldn’t Din just _understand?_ Boba was a fucked-up mess by his own hand, the victim of his own legend, he’d done it to himself and he hadn’t survived. The longer Din refused to see it, the more disappointed he would be when he realized Boba was an unstable, emotional wreck.

“Of course there is,” Boba said, heard the sharpness in his own voice but couldn’t soften it. “You saw.”

“Yes, but it’s not –” Din started, but then he seemed to think better of it. “Let’s go talk to this doctor and get out of here. He’s got to know something about where the kid could be,” he said, and Boba nodded immediately, just wanted to stop _talking_ about it. Even if Din was somehow convinced there was nothing wrong with him, even if he’d sounded so _vehement_ about it, in the few moments Boba had let him talk about it. It was a disorienting thought.

The safe house was an apartment, tucked around the corner from the busy market. Din led them into an alleyway, up rickety stairs, to the fourth floor, where he knocked on one of the doors. The door cracked open.

“Going to let us in?” Boba asked, sharp, when the door remained mostly closed. Through the sliver of open door, he could see the doctor flinch.

“Please,” Din added, “we need your help.” His gentle tone felt like an admonishment towards Boba. The door opened slowly, and then the doctor had darted backwards across the room to distance himself from them, something between confusion and terror on his face. “We’re not here to hurt you,” Din said, as Boba closed the door behind them. Boba shouldn’t have come; he could have just stayed on the ship, never humiliated himself in front of Din, never been here to ruin the interaction with the doctor. He should have just stayed. “We really do need your help.”

“What’s your name?” Din asked, kept his voice gentle.

“Kian Pershing.” His voice shook.

“Alright.”

“What’s he doing here?” Pershing nodded towards Boba. “Did – did they put out a bounty for me?”

“No,” Boba said, “Well, if they did, we’re not the ones collecting it.” Pershing went wide-eyed behind his glasses, and Boba grit his teeth. Great, he was threatening even when he felt like a pathetic mess. He should have just stayed on the ship.

“There’s no indication they know where you are,” Din added, “They took the child back, though. That’s why we’re here.”

“They took it from you?” Pershing managed to look disappointed in them, despite his terror. Din sighed.

“Yes. We need to know where they could have taken it, if you know about anywhere they might have gone, or more about what they were doing with it.”

“I didn’t know much,” Pershing’s fingers flexed against the cushion, but his shoulders had relaxed marginally. “I’m a researcher, at a university on Coruscant. I have a doctorate in genetics, but I’ve been doing work specifically with midi-chlorians.”

“What does that have to do with the kid?”

“The Force,” Boba said, softly, wanted to just – just hold Din’s hand and walk him through all the terrifying things this could encompass. “Why did they need a geneticist for all this?” he asked Pershing, voice tight.

“They wanted me to replicate the child’s midi-chlorians,” Pershing explained, “They wanted to splice its genes with the genes of someone who isn’t Force-sensitive, to make them a Force user. The child is especially of interest to them, its kind has always been known for their extreme Force sensitivity.” He peered at Din, pausing. “Why did _you_ want it?”

“Because it’s a baby,” Boba answered instead, surly. Pershing probably thought that he would sell it to the highest bidder. “The Empire shouldn’t have it.” 

“They contacted me to tell me the child had been found,” Pershing said, more to Din than Boba, though he cut frequent nervous looks in Boba’s direction. “I didn’t know they were Imperials! They said they were researchers from a university I had worked with before. They had me work with other scientists to develop the procedure we would follow, but when you took for the child, I escaped.” Pershing finally let go of the chair, circled around to sit in it instead. Boba was starting to feel restless with anxiety from all the mentions of labs and procedures and genetics; it wasn’t the same thing, it couldn’t be the same thing, but it was much too close for comfort. He didn’t want to hear about this _here,_ labs and genetics and _underground,_ he lived this when he slept, he didn’t need it to happen while he was awake, too.

“These other scientists, where were they going to work? Surely this wasn’t based out of that lab on Nevarro,” Din said, and Pershing shook his head.

“They had the Nevarro lab for the preliminary work. I was there to sedate the child, extract a sample of its DNA, and ensure that it was truly Force-sensitive.”

“So where’s the real lab?” Boba asked. “It is on some fucking Death Star 2.0 or what?”

“I think it’s on Hishyim,” Pershing said, because of _course_ it would be on a planet near Kamino. “I’m not sure where that is.”

“Abrion sector,” Boba said. “Outer rim.” How many years had it been, since he’d been near Kamino? Not since he’d been sent to take out the new batch of clones, not since he’d _killed_ them – 

“They mentioned it once,” Pershing explained, “The Hishyim facility. I think that’s where they were going to take me, and where the other scientists were sent.”

“They needed a whole facility for that?” Din asked, Pershing shrugged. Boba wished they would stop saying _facility._

“I’m sure they knew how much equipment and work would be involved with such an undertaking. What they were asking for, it’s never been done. We don’t know much about midi-chlorians, despite how many scientists have dedicated their lives to studying them. They’re complex. We don’t know if it’s the quantity, or some quality about them that makes a person Force-sensitive. I didn’t want to experiment on a child, on any living person, not at this stage in the research.”

“It’s just a baby,” Boba mumbled; he knew it was different, he _knew,_ but hearing about his child in conjunction with a facility, it was _hard._

“Thank you for protecting it,” Din said, and Pershing looked surprised. “What will you do now?”

“I… I don’t know.” Pershing pushed his glasses further up his nose, rubbed at his cheek. “I was going to go home, but it suddenly feels – not quite so important. I thought I might do more good somewhere else.” It was momentarily an odd statement; he could leave, go back to his own life, and Boba wondered briefly why he wouldn’t, but then again – neither was Boba, they’d both stumbled into something meaningful and instead of going back, kept going forward, deeper into it.

Before they left the apartment, Boba turned back, gave Pershing a quick look. “If I hear they put out a bounty for you, we’ll tell you,” he said, because he was helping them get closer to the child, because they were a little closer now than they’d been this morning. Because he was staying to help, and that made him _good._

“Thank you,” Pershing said, nearly inaudible.

Leaving was difficult. Boba had thought it would be easy, because he was getting _out_ of underground, but it was hard to tell himself that, when the tunnel’s entrance wasn’t visible from where they stood.

“I guess we’ll go to Hishyim,” Din was saying, and Boba nodded quickly, tried not to let himself fall behind as Din started into the tunnel. It was fine, he kept reminding himself, they were _leaving,_ not going further underground. “It’s more than I was expecting to find out. They must have thought they had him for good, to get him that involved. But if they still took the child despite losing the doctor, they must have someone else to continue operations without him.”

“Uh-huh.” Boba kept his gaze fixed on Din, though the walls of the tunnel loomed threateningly closer, almost impossible to look past. It wasn’t dark, he _knew_ that, but it suddenly was feeling dark, creeping in at the edges of his vision. “It… is.”

“What is?”

“Uh. Involved. He is.” Boba’s chest felt tight as he struggled to keep breathing evenly. He was fine, he wasn’t going to lose it again. He _wouldn’t._

“You… okay?” Din asked, hesitant, like he didn’t know what he’d do if Boba said no. Boba set his shoulders, forced back a wave of dizzying panic.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, and it was sharper than he meant it to be, but it was the only way to keep the quaver out of his voice. He followed Din the rest of the way in silence, determinedly thought only about counting forwards and backwards from five, over and over, until finally, light bloomed overhead and they were free.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter has fanart!](https://dindlarin.tumblr.com/post/639065368078516224/din-spent-a-while-pushing-the-puddles-of-de-icing) Thank you to cryo-bucky for this, it is SO PRECIOUS

Refueling a ship was quite possibly the worst part of flying. Boba hadn’t been to a public fueling station in what could easily have been decades; he’d always go out of his way to stop by a private one instead, paid higher prices or exchanged work for fuel with a crime syndicate that had their own fueling setup. And he knew, he knew it wasn’t really the wait that bothered him; it was the fact that when he was younger, he’d been recognized three times, at three different fueling stations, as three other clones. It wasn’t long after the third time that he’d stopped taking off the helmet even while indoors, and he’d definitely stopped going to public fueling stations.

Din had no such reservations, and they were waiting in a seemingly endless line, at least eight ships ahead of them that Boba could see. He was staring out the viewscreen, trying to see if there was a ninth ship around the corner of the station, when Din finally spoke.

“You said that… what happened at the tunnel… it’s happened before?” Din sounded hesitant, though Boba couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t know how to address this, or if there was an answer he was hoping not to get. Maybe both.

“Yeah.” Boba crossed his arms, didn’t look in Din’s direction. He had the helmet back on, so at least Boba wouldn’t be swayed by the look on Din’s face. If Din looked at him with sweet concern in his eyes, it was dangerously likely that Boba would cry, just disintegrate into all the feelings constantly threatening to sweep him away. He was _scared,_ how had Din never known that? He didn’t recognize himself anymore, he was weakened and constantly under siege, he’d wanted so badly to sleep beside Din last night and the rejection had left him lonely and cold and Din hadn’t _known_.

“Like… all your life, or…”

“Only since –”

“Oh. Right. Makes sense.” Din paused. In the silence, Boba could hear the faint movement of his leather gloves, Din fidgeting with his hands in the way that was quickly becoming familiar to Boba. “You never told me.” It was small, almost hurt. Boba slumped down further, couldn’t think of anything to say. _I’m sorry_ didn’t feel right, but neither did _how didn’t you know?_

When their turn at the refueling station finally came, Boba didn’t so much hide as sulk around in the carbonite storage area of the ship, and even once he heard Din back in the cockpit, didn’t return there. Boba stepped down the ladder and went to poke through the weaponry locker, see if there was anything he could clean or fuss with, anything that would keep his hands busy so he could distract himself from his surly mood. He was just – just _unhappy,_ the kid was gone and Boba had fallen apart and Din had said _you never told me_ like he didn’t understand why Boba wouldn’t want to lay bare all the worst parts of himself. Boba was frustrated at all the things he couldn’t fix, everything he couldn’t do.

He stayed below deck for a long time. There was plenty that needed fixing between the blasters and rifles, and he wanted to give Din time to forget their last conversation, or at least not have it be so present in his mind that he might bring it up again if Boba reappeared. If Din had been hurt by his secrecy before, surely finding out that Boba had been hiding full-on panic attacks wouldn’t have made him feel any better, and Boba sulked guiltily, still unable to talk about it but hurt that Din hadn’t _known._

An hour or so passed before Boba couldn’t take the solitude anymore; how had he made it _this many years,_ he wondered, as he was drawn back towards Din, needing to be around him again. Up in the cockpit, Din was busily cleaning inside the access hatch of the instrument panel, and Boba stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Din’s broad shoulders shift beneath his shirt, the flex of his bicep as he leaned underneath the panel.

“What are you doing?” Boba asked, dropped into the passenger seat.

“Cleaning.” Din looked over his shoulder; did he look more worried than usual? Boba squirmed underneath his gaze, unsure if Din was seeing him as more of a mess than before.

“Need any help?” He asked, if just to prove that he was capable of doing things, that he wasn’t liable to fall apart because of just anything.

“It’s pretty cramped down here,” Din paused; his sleeve was pushed back, revealing the muscle of his forearm, a dusting of surprisingly light hair and a few faded scars. “We’re almost there, maybe an hour out.” Boba propped his elbow on the panel, fist against his cheek as he looked out the viewscreen, the only way to stop himself from just staring at Din. “I think something’s leaking, everything’s oily. Nothing major.”

“Greasy, or just slippery?” Boba asked absently. He used to do all his own ship repairs; letting anyone onto the ship had always felt like a breach of privacy he wouldn’t be able to shake afterwards. Besides, more often than not, he’d needed something to keep himself busy, so he wouldn’t collapse into a tailspin of anxious misery. It felt more obvious in retrospect, how shakily he’d been holding himself together. Was it really any surprise, that he’d finally succumbed? It almost felt understandable. If Din looked at him with surprise over this, fine; Boba allowed himself to sink into an oddly comforting acceptance despite it. Of course he was having panic attacks, he’d gone through things that scared the hell out of him and he’d been entirely alone. He was facing them all again now, and coming out on the other side shaking but alive.

“Uh. Slippery, I guess.”

“Probably the de-icing system,” Boba said. “That shit’s always the leak. Won’t affect anything that badly, though.”

“That’s good.” Din went back to cleaning; Boba felt himself drifting off, lulled by the quiet and Din’s presence. It was unfair, that falling apart took so much out of him when he hadn’t ever _wanted_ it to happen, but he was completely wrung out by it every time, left exhausted with nothing more to give. Besides, he figured Hishyim was going to have a facility that looked like a lab, and if he had to set foot in a lab, he’d never be able to sleep again. Best to get some sleep while he still could. While Din was as close as Boba could get him.

Hishyim loomed below them, a featureless desert of a planet. After the hours it had taken them to arrive, things were suddenly moving much too quickly for Boba’s liking. It seemed like only a few minutes ago that Din had told him Cara was on her way, and already she had boarded the Razor Crest and they were nearing the planet for landing.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place before,” Cara said, leaned over to see through the viewscreen at the slowly nearing surface of the planet.

“More desert,” Boba muttered. “Always desert.” Did it even matter, anymore? Bad things could happen on every landscape.

“I guess you wouldn’t be a fan,” Cara said, and it had a surprising note of sympathy. Maybe she just thought he was about to break down in tears again and wanted to ward it off. How charitable of her, he thought bitterly, even if it was almost endearing, her thinking that would be enough to hold off the kind of breakdown he was prone to. “That the facility way out there?” 

There were several interconnecting buildings that had come up in the ship’s scans of the surface; though seemingly entirely desert, the planet’s surface was a sharp-edged landscape, with many cliffs and sheer drops. They’d seemingly chosen the planet for its remote location first and foremost, and not for its surface; they would be easy to approach, but first, they would have been exceedingly difficult to locate.

“How do we get in?” Din asked, “I could land out of sight.”

“No, we don’t have to do that,” Boba said, because at least he had _something_ left to offer, the only thing he’d ever had: his name. “Use their landing pad.” Din obeyed without question, brought them down to the planet’s surface, and landed squarely on the facility’s landing pad. 

“You stay here,” Boba told Cara, standing. She went to protest, but he shook his head. “You’ll have a comlink to us, and we’ll tell you if things go sideways. We’ll need you ready to leave, or to come in after us.” They’d left her ship in orbit above the planet, part of Din’s multi-tiered escape plan.

“Alright,” Cara sighed. She accepted the comlink Din passed her, though she raised her eyebrows at him, as Boba slid past them to take the ladder. “This isn’t your style,” she said to Din, “You gonna be alright?”

Boba dropped down the ladder, went to collect his armor. No chance of using Din’s old set this time, despite the comfort it might have lent him. He had to be recognizable, for this to work, recognizable as the worst version of himself.

Din joined him moments later and they left the ship; Boba led the way, through metal doors that slid open at their approach. Inside was an eerie, familiar quiet. Everywhere Boba looked was blank steel, sterile featurelessness. It felt like walking right into his frequent nightmare; it felt like he was back on Kamino.

“No reception desk, that’s pretty rude,” Boba muttered, only because he couldn’t stop seeing the reception desk that was supposed to have been there, where his father would walk up and never need to introduce himself, where Boba couldn’t even see to the top of the desk. Once he was tall enough, he had been able to see the stationed officer’s startled look of recognition at the sight of him.

Here, there was just a security droid, stationed beside the turbolift. “Hey!” Boba barked at the droid. “Do I have to wait all day?”

“State your purpose,” the droid intoned. Boba sucked in a breath at the sharp wrenching feeling in his chest, hearing _please focus on your breathing_ in a similar monotone.

“We’re here for Nivenkan,” Boba said; Pershing had gotten the name to them, eager to help. “Got something he may be interested in.”

“Very well. I will relay your request. Please standby.”

“Tell him it’s Boba Fett. He’ll take my call.” Boba waited with his arms crossed. The droid spoke into an internal comlink, reporting that Boba Fett had arrived with an item of interest. They couldn’t hear the response, but the droid informed them that the doctor would arrive shortly.

They didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes, the turbolift doors opened, and a man stepped out in front of them. The gray of his crisp uniform and of his hair contrasted with his blue skin, and his eyes burned entirely red.

“This is a surprise,” the man said. “Though not an unwelcome one.”

“I found something that may interest you,” Boba said. “Thought I’d give you the opportunity to bid.”

“How very kind.” The man smiled, humorless.

“The child Gideon found,” Boba said, and the man’s eyes narrowed slightly in interest. “I’m in possession of another. Stronger in the Force. Thought it might be of interest to you.”

“And you have come to me directly?”

“Wanted to see if it was going to a good home.” The sneering tone came easily. “Your credits aren’t much good until I have proof you’ll pay anything for it.” It was a transaction he’d made many times before: go to the buyer before actually putting himself through the work of obtaining something risky. A way to wield his name so it had a heft he could feel, grounding him.

“A man of foresight.”

“Sure.”

“In that case, I would be happy to offer you a tour of our facility. I think you’ll find that our use for the specimen guarantees our interest. I am Inronkini’venka’nurudo, I am the head scientist for the facility.” There it was again, _facility._ Boba’s skin prickled at the word.

Nivenkan ushered them into the turbolift and it began rising, at least three floors before the doors opened again.

“I believe you will find this facility of special interest,” he said, as he strode down another featureless hallway, closed doors on all sides, silence and cool air settling over them. Boba didn’t like the way he kept _saying_ that; what _special interest_ could he have? Did Nivenkan know his poor history with the Jedi? “We have focused on the midi-chlorians as a way to usher in a new era of genetics. The Force offers a unique opportunity only to the Force-sensitive, but we are very close to fostering this aptitude at a genetic level.”

“And then what?” Boba asked, “Force-sensitivity for all?”

“Oh, no,” Nivenkan chortled, but it was cold. “We seek a more strategic solution for the Empire.”

“Making Stormtroopers into Jedi, now?” Boba asked, and Nivenkan didn’t respond, just kept leading them down the hallway. Boba wanted to back up, to duck away from the long, almost familiar hallway. It was the blankness, because anyone walking down it either knew exactly where to go, or didn’t need to know because they had no choice in their destination. Boba knew he was finding similarities where there weren’t any, but it was chilling, making his heart beat faster than normal.

Nivenkan stopped before a long window that overlooked a lab below. Boba didn’t want to look, didn’t want to _know,_ because when he looked out, he could see pods lining the walls, rows and rows and rows of them. Empty, but he could still see it, because he was standing on a different bridge, in a different lab, looking out at the rows and recognizing every single face.

“We are ready to increase production,” Nivenkan said, his voice faraway, and Boba drew in a sharp breath, could hear only his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. _Increase production,_ and Boba was hearing it echo out of the past, and in front of him, the empty pods stood waiting, waiting for –

“Clones,” Boba whispered. The word clenched around his chest and refused to let go, its stranglehold forcing the air from his lungs. But clones of – of _who?_ He stared at the pods for a long moment, then turned to Nivenkan, forced himself to stay steady. Din was silent beside him, and he could have been an imagined thing, a figure from a dream gentler than any Boba ever had.

“Show me them,” he said, and Nivenkan gave a slow, knowing smile that made Boba shiver. They weren’t, he told himself, they weren’t and they _couldn’t be._

“As I said. I believe you will find this of special interest.”

Boba cast a look at Din before following Nivenkan down the hallway. Din had yet to say anything; did he understand what was happening? Could he see the specter of it, looming ahead of them? The words _special interest_ howled in Boba’s ears.

Nivenkan led them into the inner chambers of the facility, and Boba knew they were nearing the labs from the way their surroundings changed. This had always been the worst part, this was the part he relived whenever he slept, the lab that was the reason he was _nothing._

“The specimens you can provide would greatly expand our ability to experiment and test,” Nivenkan was saying. “I believe we are on the cusp of success. Similar to how we can accelerate the growth of clones, we can prime their DNA for adaptation. We received only a small sample from the initial specimen, and it already catapulted us forward in our research with the latest test batch.”

They were passing labs, and Boba kept his gaze forward, didn’t have the courage to look in just yet. It couldn’t be, he kept telling himself. It couldn’t be. Even he didn’t deserve that, he couldn’t suffer _that much._ It wasn’t survivable.

“You must excuse my enthusiasm to show my work,” Nivenkan said, as he stopped in front of a window into the lab. “But I couldn’t pass up the chance to show the continuation of research to the product of the original work! I would be quite pleased if one of my own creations was such a success.”

Boba felt sick at the words. _The product of the original work._ Was Din understanding what that meant? It was like when Boba was little, when his father would bring him to the lab so they could check on him, and they would talk over his head in preening voices, _normal growth progression, great work, fantastic success._ Boba had always been too afraid to let go of his dad’s hand, because he’d seen the other little boys in the glassed-in rooms who looked exactly like him, and if one of them grabbed his dad’s hand, his dad would take him home instead, would never see the difference.

“A success, huh,” Boba said, voice flat. Nivenkan was waiting for him to look, and Boba forced himself to turn to the window, his breathing already shaky, everything in him already screaming to escape.

Boba was looking at _himself._ Three clones in hospital beds, and they were perfect copies of Boba as a teenager, had his gangly limbs and sharp cheekbones and dark, pain-filled eyes. He could feel himself becoming less of an individual the longer he looked at them, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Perhaps my true intentions are slightly more than I implied,” Nivenkan said. “Imagine what you could have been, if the research back then had been as advanced as mine. You could become so much _more.”_ More? Boba pushed away the wave of disgust, clenched his teeth. He could only be _less._ “If I had access to something more advanced –”

“No,” Boba snarled, and he was already seeing himself in the lab, just like the other clones, because he was _just like them._

“I urge you to consider my offer.”

“You’re only asking,” Boba spat, “Because you don’t have the resources to force me. If you had anyone who could take me, I’d already be in the lab.” His racing heart told him it was true, telling him this was a close call, that if there were more security guards, more resources, this was where he’d be staying, he would die here, die like all these clones.

“Perhaps you will change your mind when you return with the next specimen. May I assume we have an agreement regarding the future specimens?”

“I’ll let you know.” Boba struggled to get a hold of himself; the baby, he reminded himself helplessly, _their_ baby. That was why they were here, in this horrifying nightmare, and Boba wasn’t just a clone, he was their kid’s father, and he had to keep it _together._ Boba forced himself to look back at the lab again, to feign interest. “Any of them showing signs of Force sensitivity yet?”

“This is our most promising batch yet,” Nivenkan said. “We have detected early indicators of a high midi-chlorian count.”

“I see.” Boba paused. Nivenkan watched him like he was itching to drag Boba into the lab, and then what? Implant the chip that Boba had spent years working himself into hysterics over, worrying he had one? Alter his DNA like the other clones? He was the same blank slate as the rest of them.

“We will be receiving the original specimen tomorrow,” Nivenkan said, “I am confident that will accelerate our results. As of now, we can only manipulate the clones’ DNA, but we will begin microinjection trials and retroviral vectors with the specimen’s cells. The growth acceleration has posed some problems in our ability to manipulate the genetic structure, but with an unaltered clone, I am sure the potential would be unlimited.” He kept looking at Boba; Boba turned away. With the clones right in front of them, it felt like Nivenkan could see his face anyways.

“We’ll be in touch.”

Nivenkan beckoned to a security droid at the end of the hallway; it scuttled towards them, the only sound in the otherwise-silent corridor. “Please escort our guests to the entrance,” Nivenkan told the droid, then nodded to Boba and Din. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to our next meeting and the services we can offer each other.”

When Boba looked over, Din was still staring into the lab, unmoving. Did he realize, what they were? What Boba was?

_I’m the same as them,_ Boba couldn’t tell him, but surely he was seeing it for himself. And worse, worse, _they’re the same as me._ This was when Boba needed a secret, shared language the most, a way to reach for Din and tell him, in a whisper only Din would understand, _I am so scared of them._


	20. Chapter 20

Boba was relieved that a security droid was the only one to escort them away from the labs. He couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, edgy and nervous as they passed closed doors and corners he couldn’t see around. It was too similar, every lab felt the same, and he was half sure that they weren’t leaving at all, that this was just an endless loop, a nightmare he couldn’t remember beginning but would never leave. It felt surreal enough that he could be asleep – Din’s head was down, an unfamiliar inattentiveness making him feel like a just-slightly-wrong version of himself, and the droid was a different kind than the Kamino lab had, spindly instead of rounded, and the talk of Force-sensitivity was a bizarre, unfamiliar inclusion. By the time the droid was bidding them a placid farewell at the entrance of the facility, Boba’s heart was beating too quickly for comfort.

Once aboard the Crest, Boba went straight to the cockpit, had to keep moving or he might fall apart. Cara was waiting for them, and the look she gave him lingered for a moment too long, made him itch with the feeling of being looked at, of her remembering how he looked when he fell apart.

“We’ll take off so they see us leave,” Boba told Cara before she could say anything, looking back as Din climbed the ladder to join them, “Get back to Cara’s ship. If Gideon is bringing the kid, we need someone scanning for him to give us warning.”

“Did you guys find out anything?” Cara asked, as Din slid into the captain’s chair.

“Cloning facility.” Even the words felt overly revealing, obviously personal, somehow tearing his chest open and pointing right to the DNA heart of him: _cloning facility,_ imprinted on his every gene.

“Cloning… of what? Of the kid?”

“No.” He pushed himself up and left the cockpit, ignoring Cara’s perplexed look, too frantic with the need to escape the discussion, the sound of the word _cloning._ They’d looked just like him, they _were_ him, and what was left of him, if there were more clones? He was nothing, he’d always been nothing, and he would never be alone in the galaxy, never be the only copy of himself.

 _I’m not nothing,_ he wanted to beg, in the face of all the clones, but it was so much harder to keep his grasp on the shred of a conviction. Maybe if he was somewhere else, _anywhere else,_ but here, at a cloning facility, with clones exactly like him –

Boba stripped off his armor and climbed into the bed compartment to catch his breath out of sight, needed to sit before his knees gave out beneath him. He pressed his back against the wall and tried to breathe, but he kept seeing their faces, _his,_ they were seventeen because he’d recognize that age anywhere, because oh, how he’d _hated_ himself at seventeen. He’d been a monster, a riotous wreck of violence and misery, fighting to make a name for himself. Had Din recognized him? Had he seen Boba, in those clones? They hadn’t yet wielded anger as a weapon, hadn’t yet forged a name out of hateful desperation, but the capacity to do so lived inside them.

Din appeared, though Boba didn’t know how much time had passed. He leaned his shoulder against the compartment entrance, just looked in at Boba for a long moment. The sight of his face uncovered once again made a distant, helpless surge of affection well up in Boba’s chest.

“What does this mean?” Din asked, his voice so gentle.

“This time, they want the clone army to be Force-sensitive.” He was going to have to tell Din. Din was going to see it for himself one way or another, and Boba was facing the end at long last; all he could feel was numb, already lost. It was inescapable; there were already other clones. He was no different. He’d almost been _different._

“Why not just clone someone already Force-sensitive, then?”

“Doesn’t work. Can have the same midi-chlorian count, and still not be Force-sensitive. Easier to use a clone if you’re going to manipulate their genes, so you can apply the same thing to all of them. Same growth alterations, same modifications. Same chip, too, if there is one. They’re clones of my father. The army before, and the ones here.”

Din said nothing, and he had the sweetest, deepest concern on his face; he didn’t know about the clones, about the chips, about the army, and Boba should have let him stay there, shielded.

“It’s not the first time someone’s tried it. Don’t have to reinvent everything if they keep using the same genetic material. Kaminoans did it, too.” Boba shook his head sharply, gestured to somehow indicate the Kamino lab that lived on in his nightmares. How was this happening again? How did he have to survive this?

“What happened to those clones?”

“Dead. The Empire had their remaining clones take out the new ones on Kamino. They were young, and still untrained. Died easily.”

“Were you there?” Din asked, and of course, of course Boba was there. Anywhere terrible, and he was there. Boba had never felt so much like a clone as he did on Kamino, and he’d intended to never removed his helmet, as though any of the 501st didn’t already know he was just another one of them; when one saw him, the look of betrayal had burned. Like Boba was somehow doing wrong by them – there was nothing to be loyal to, nothing to do right by, they were _nothing,_ and he was nothing, too, but it had stayed with him for decades, stayed with him still.

“These ones won’t have to die,” Din said, “We’ll get to them first.”

“They’re clones.” Din didn’t _get_ it. They didn’t have to die? They wouldn’t want to _live._ Why would Din ever want to subject them to a life as a clone? “Better to be dead than a clone.”

“The clones in the lab,” Din said, hesitant, and he looked so deeply worried, like he could see an extra dimension to this that Boba couldn’t, but _Din_ was the one who wasn’t understanding, not Boba. “All I could see when I looked at them – they’re kids, _werlaara._ Just foundlings that no one knows about. How could anyone come for them, when they weren’t taken from anyone? This – this _demagolka_ can’t have them.” He spat the Mando’a word, like he shared the language with Boba, but how couldn’t he see it? The clones in the lab, _they_ were the only ones Boba shared anything with. He shared everything with them.

“Din,” he managed, the name a plea. How couldn’t Din see that facility written all over him? It was in his blood, him and every other clone.

Din kept speaking in Mando’a, said something soft and murmured, and it wasn’t _for_ Boba, it wasn’t what he’d come from. They were at a lab that may as well have been Boba’s birthplace, because it could have been any lab, because it didn’t _matter_ where he came from when he was a clone. He couldn’t understand anything Din was saying, and his eyes were so _sad._

“I can’t,” Boba said, voice breaking over the words. Din’s reaction was immediate this time, hurt welling in his eyes.

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t, he _didn’t._

“I can’t speak Mando’a.” He should have said it earlier, but already a desperate need to claw his way back closer to Din was rising in his chest, the words forcing him further away, and he wasn’t ready, he _wasn’t ready_. “I’m not a Mandalorian, Din. The only word I ever knew was _dar’manda.”_ He produced the letters with some effort, the language tasting wrong on his tongue. He probably couldn’t even pronounce that name Din called him, and didn’t that mean it wasn’t his to keep?

Din’s eyes widened, lips parting like he was going to speak and had forgotten every word he knew. He had the most expressive face, his eyes reflecting a desperate sort of confusion, nearly panic, and _oh,_ he’d had no idea, he really hadn’t, the ground was dropping out from under him and he looked so _lost._ He must have thought Boba was _home,_ and now here he was, finding himself somewhere unfamiliar, uncomforting.

“I’m not like you,” Boba forced himself to keep going, every word sharp in his throat, bloody in his mouth. “ _You’re_ a Mandalorian, and I didn’t – I didn’t come from that. I didn’t come from _anything._ They exiled my father and he never wanted to go back, never raised me as one, and you look at me like I’m _something,_ but –”

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, and Boba fought back a helpless sob. Din was so close, Boba ached to reach for him, bury his face in Din’s chest and just be held again, Din’s gentleness the only thing that had ever made him feel saved.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Legend,” Din said, and he reached to touch Boba with just his fingertips on Boba’s shoulder, light and tentative like he didn’t even know Boba anymore, like he was suddenly something entirely unfamiliar. “ _Ner werlaara._ My legend.” The irony threatened to rip Boba’s heart right out of his chest. He wasn’t a legend, he wasn’t _anything,_ and he certainly wasn’t Din’s. He was a clone who had been mistaken for a Mandalorian.

“I’m not,” Boba said, shook his head, jaw tight as he tried to force away the tears that threatened. “I’m not. I’m not a Mandalorian, I’m not a legend, I’m not _anything,_ Din!” The hurt anger spilled over, and he pulled away from Din, stumbling off the bed and onto his feet because if Din touched him, he was going to _sob,_ never be able to stop _. “This_ is what I came from!” He pointed towards the planet, the facility, this not-a-homeland, this pointless origin. “This is my fucking legacy. I didn’t come from anything. I’m nothing but my name.”

“You’re –”

“I’m _nothing._ Everything I’ve done, I just wanted to – to _exist,_ to be something, so there would be a reason that I was the one that was my father’s son. He wanted an army and he wanted a son, and he treated me differently than them, but there was _no reason._ I could have just as easily been one of them, because that’s _all I am.”_ He couldn’t stop himself, he was going to tear himself apart until there was nothing left, because there had never _been_ anything, and what did he think he’d been doing, this entire time?

“Boba,” Din said, and for once, the lack of Mando’a broke Boba’s heart.

“I’m a _clone.”_ He’d never said it out loud before. Over forty years, and he’d never been able to say the words out loud. And now, to the man he loved, he was saying it. In the end, it was always Boba’s responsibility to lay out the worst truths about himself, always his own victim in the end.

He was the one who lifted his father’s helmet in his hands and walked away choosing to see nothing but vengeance, he was the one who agreed to shoot every clone on Kamino who shared his DNA, he was the one who stood over the Sarlacc pit and thought nothing could happen to him. He was the one who had to look at the man he loved, and tell him the truth. “I’m just a fucking clone, Din.”

Din stood in silence for a long moment, his eyes the saddest Boba had ever seen. And then – then he was pulling Boba into his arms, and Boba collapsed against his chest, trembling at the feeling of Din’s arms wrapped tight around him. Din knew, he knew, and he was _holding_ Boba. The world was ending, but Boba sunk into the feeling, pressed his face against Din’s shoulder and clung to him tightly. How could he have lived this long, without knowing how this would feel? How could Din be holding him _now?_ His hands were so gentle on Boba’s back.

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din said, his voice a rumble Boba could feel, calling Boba his legend, and that was what he’d always been saying in the gentlest voice, _legend, legend, legend,_ and Boba _sobbed._ “Being a clone – it’s not what you _are._ It’s just the circumstances of your birth. You were always someone. So is every single clone.”

It was like he was still speaking a language Boba couldn’t understand. Boba hiccupped sobs and squeezed his eyes shut, tried to stop his breathing from shaking. Din didn’t understand. He knew, but he didn’t understand, but of course this would be how he misunderstood.

“We have to save them,” Din murmured against Boba’s hair, “Like you should have been saved.” That was where Din was wrong; Boba shouldn’t have been saved, had never deserved to be saved. And he was wrong in thinking Boba hadn’t been, because here Boba was, in love and in his arms, _saved._

Boba didn’t want to ever leave, grateful that at least for now, Din didn’t seem to have any intention of letting him go; he hugged Boba tightly to him, one hand settled at the back of Boba’s neck, thumb rubbing small circles over his skin. It seemed impossible, that Boba had survived without knowing the way Din pulled him in against his body, how Din ducked his head to get closer, the soft words he murmured in Mando’a like he was comforting Boba in such an instinctual way, he’d slipped back into it.

Boba’s heart didn’t break until the very end, when Din pulled back and the sorrowful look on his face made Boba’s chest ache. He rubbed at his wet cheeks with his sleeve, didn’t know how he was getting away with anything anymore, how he didn’t transmit _in love_ as obviously as _clone._

“We’ll put together a plan, okay?” Din said, his hands still resting on Boba’s upper arms. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

It almost sounded like it could be, at least until Boba heard Din’s plan, heard it again when his confused look prompted Din to explain it again. They’d moved to the cockpit, and Din had explained it twice already, but Boba _didn’t like it._ Din wanted to save the clones, too.

Boba hated what it brought out in himself, but he couldn’t stop recoiling, couldn’t make himself stomach it. “The longer we take, the more we risk not getting the kid at all,” he said, again, “We need to go in, go right to the kid, and get the fuck out.”

“I can’t do that.” Din’s voice was quiet, but firm, a miserable edge to it. Boba crossed his arms tighter across his chest when Din looked at him; he could feel it, that Din was seeing the clones. How couldn’t Din understand what that meant for all of them? None of them were an individual, and Boba didn’t wish that on them. He didn’t want them to _die,_ but – but living out in the galaxy, with the weight of a cloning facility on their shoulders, was an almost unsurvivable way to live.

“They’re probably not all kids,” Boba added, “Sounds like they updated the aging acceleration. Probably grow to teenagers quicker now, and then progress normally.”

Din sighed, ran a hand through his softly curling hair, looked away. The abject heartbreak on his face _hurt._ He really – he really didn’t see it. He really didn’t see them as clones, and forcing him to leave them behind would break him. Din had been so afraid to find out the vast, interconnected cruelty of the galaxy, and hadn’t Boba wanted to protect him from that? Boba could never hurt him, and Din looked like he might finally, finally break down.

_Being a clone – it’s not what you are,_ he’d told Boba, and Din would never lie to him. Whether or not he was right, Din believed that clones were no different than anyone else, no different than any foundling, than _theirs;_ Din would never survive leaving these clones behind.

“Okay,” Boba said. Din lifted his head, stared at Boba in surprise. _I love you,_ Boba couldn’t explain, _I don’t want you to hurt like this._ He sank down into the passenger seat, thought he might collapse if he stayed standing.

Din went ahead and contacted Cara to ask for Resistance backup, and Boba stared out the viewscreen, tried to stop seeing the facility, memories of it already merging with images from his dreams, from before. He would never be able to sleep again; he never wanted the child to spend a night in the facility, never wanted it to learn the way to the lab, never wanted it to wake up thinking it might still be there. Boba just wanted their child back in his arms.

“What would be taking him so long to get here?” Din asked, having ended his call with Cara.

“Remember that Admiral I was hired to kill?” Boba asked, and it felt like a lifetime ago. “I’d bet anything Gideon just killed that guy himself.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t hire good enough help,” Boba gave a humorless snort. “The Admiral is the one that heard about the child first. He wanted it killed immediately, thinks a Force-sensitive army is a mistake because they would be too powerful to control. Gideon didn’t want him influencing anyone and now that he’s finally got the kid, he won’t want any loose ends that could stop his plan.”

It felt strange, not to talk about it. Din knew now; everything Boba had done, he’d done as a clone, _because_ he was a clone. Did he realize, that the clones would look exactly like Boba? Boba just didn’t want Din to look at him in shock, in unrecognition.

“People used to recognize me,” Boba mumbled, couldn’t bear to look at Din but had to make sure he knew. “Not by name. That’s why I started wearing the armor all the time, but then people actually thought I was a Mandalorian.”

“I always thought you were,” Din said, sounded almost guilty, as though Boba hadn’t known that the entire time. Din had spoken to him in Mando’a, like it was a secret, intimate connection between them; Boba had known, what Din thought he was. The hurt tore more words out of him, because he just wanted Din to understand, _really_ understand, because if he was going to see clones who were exactly like Boba – maybe he could recognize Boba by his broken pieces.

“They exiled my father for everything he did, and they didn’t want me, either. No one cares who your father was, unless it was Jango Fett and you’re his fucking clone and not his son. The whole helmet thing?” Boba waved vaguely towards Din’s helmet without looking towards where it sat at the corner of the console, “They don’t _have_ to do that. You know how you said you had to learn how to feel important, without a name or a face of your own, because they don’t let you have that? I never got a fucking choice.”

Din rose from his seat, and Boba watched him move closer, heart stuttering over a beat when Din sank down onto one knee, between Boba’s spread legs. It was more than Boba could take, and then Din was placing a hand on Boba’s thigh, dangerously high up on his leg. Boba swallowed a whimper, willed himself not to move, though his dick stiffened at the touch. The whole world shrank to the sight of Din between his legs, intense brown eyes fixed on Boba. He was so big, up close, broad and _big,_ and his eyes were so earnestly concerned; how he didn’t see that Boba would do _anything_ for him was beyond Boba’s understanding.

“I’m sorry for not realizing you couldn’t understand me. It always seemed like you understood what I was trying to say,” Din said; he was quieter, without the helmet, like he always wanted to be soft, quiet, would prefer to speak so gently the modulator wouldn’t be able to pick it up. 

“I got the tone,” Boba said, managed a small shrug. He bit down hard on his lower lip, thigh muscle twitching beneath Din’s palm; Din ran his thumb in small circles, and Boba could focus on nothing else. He hoped Din wouldn’t look down, wouldn’t notice his dick straining against the front of his pants already, and tried to spread his legs more to hide it. Fuck, Din was so close, so _close,_ and he was looking at Boba in a way that made Boba want to absolutely melt for him. How he could go from miserable to aroused without ever shifting fully from one state to the other was a mystery to him, but his longing for Din was somehow wrapped up with both, a bone-deep ache for him undefeated by Boba’s inability to have him.

“On Arvala-7, when you told me about the Sarlacc, I told you I’d never let that happen to you again. I’ve told you that I have your back, and that you’re not alone, because we’re one.” Din swallowed, paused, and Boba was still reeling, still trying to understand. “I told you that I love you.”

Din loved him.

Boba was a clone, and Din loved him. Boba could do nothing but stare at him, struggling to understand, because both things couldn’t be true, they _couldn’t._

“I’m not –” he tried, because he wasn’t – wasn’t _anything,_ but Din – he’d said – when Boba told him about the Sarlacc, Din’s response had been to promise to _protect_ him, to keep him safe, Din had been telling him all this time that he was safe, protected, _loved._

“I _know_ who you are,” Din interrupted, and the firmness of his tone made Boba nearly squirm in his seat, breath catching in his throat. “ _Ner werlaara,_ you are everything.”

Din leaned closer, placed a hand on the back of Boba’s neck and pulled him in; when Din kissed him, all Boba could do was whimper, lips parting for him eagerly. He struggled not to surge forward, but he was falling apart anyways, kissing Din back desperately. It was Din, _Din,_ and Boba loved him so much it tore him apart. Boba needed to be touched by him, to feel Din’s hands everywhere, and whatever the fuck else he’d been made for didn’t matter, because the real reason, surely it had to be _this._

“Please, please,” he panted against Din’s lips, the only words he could remember. He wanted Din so badly it burned through his veins. Din shifted slightly, licked his lips; Boba wanted to be kissed again, practically trembling for it. It felt like a dream, the impossibly real hallucination of the thing he’d imagined hundreds of times, but Din was so much more solid up close, so _real._ Kissing him. No one ever wanted to kiss him, and Din was looking at Boba like he never wanted to stop.

“Come with me,” Din said, and Boba’s heart raced even faster. Din pulled him to his feet, led him downstairs by the hand, and Boba followed him onto the bed – the bed where he’d woken up beside Din, where he’d imagined Din laying him down and fucking him, kissing him but never like Din had just kissed him, because Boba could never imagine it so perfectly. The moments spent without Din touching him were agony, and as soon as he lay down beside Boba, the feel of his hands back on Boba was a relief.

“Have you always wanted to do this?” Din asked, and Boba laughed, a breathless exhale. He couldn’t remember a time when he _hadn’t._ The moment Din had touched him had begun a desperate, unstoppable fall. Just the feeling of Din’s hand stroking along his arm had Boba’s dick twitching eagerly, and he struggled to keep his hips still.

“When you found me on Mustafar,” he said, felt himself blushing. It had been so immediate, so deep, he’d wanted to be overtaken by Din as soon as they’d met. “And picked me up? After that, all I could think about was your hands on me. You were so – so gentle.” It was the best thing he’d ever felt, and he’d wanted to feel it everywhere, to sink into it. Din’s hand traveled from Boba’s arm to his side, palm resting on Boba’s hip, just like when Boba had woken up to find Din’s arm around him. Boba sighed at his touch, every part of him just _aching_ for Din. Could he touch Din, yet? He’d done this so many times but never with Din.

Din’s hand moved almost shyly, resting on Boba’s hip and petting circles over his skin but not moving further; Boba tried to hold himself back, though he wanted to explore every inch of Din’s body, hands roving everywhere, learning everything. He was so hard that even the slight friction of his hips against the bed made him swallow whines, and when Din finally pushed his thigh between Boba’s legs, Boba almost lost it.

“Please,” he gasped out, reaching for Din, hands flattened against Din’s impossibly broad chest. Din’s thigh nudged up against Boba’s dick, but it was the look on his face that really did Boba in, the needy, helpless way he was looking at Boba, like he couldn’t figure out how to translate what he wanted into actual action. “Din, _please,”_ Boba moaned, needed desperately to encourage him, and Din nudged just slightly against Boba’s lower back, the press of his fingertips a tiny plea.

It was all the encouragement Boba needed, and he rutted against Din’s thick thigh eagerly, groaning at the absolutely perfect friction of it. He clung to Din’s shirt, shoving his hips forward into the pressure, and there were far too many layers of fabric separating them but when was the last time this had felt so _good?_

“ _Din,_ please,” he whimpered, the only words he even knew anymore. All the times he’d imagined it, held himself back from it, and suddenly, he was being kissed by Din, riding his thigh and pushing pleas into Din’s mouth. Din kissed Boba like he was dying for it, licking into his mouth and leaning in closer; his hand pressed more firmly against Boba’s lower back, like he wanted to do more but wasn’t sure _what,_ and as much as Boba wanted Din’s hands on him, wanted Din’s cock buried in him to the hilt and his hand on Boba’s dick, Boba _loved_ him for this. It was so – so him, so perfectly, he _wanted_ to give Boba what he needed but the only direction he knew was just _closer,_ no more finesse than that _._ It was enough, though, Boba didn’t care if he never got to do anything else but be kissed by Din while grinding down against him, arousal sparking its way along his spine and blooming in his veins.

“That’s good,” Din murmured, and Boba _sobbed_ for it. “ _Werlaara,_ you’re so good.” His deep voice, telling Boba he was _good,_ calling him the name he’d _given_ Boba, it made Boba absolutely fall apart. He managed on a few more thrusts before it hit him, and he dropped his head to Din’s shoulder, a moan ripped out of him as he shuddered through his orgasm, could hear only Din’s deep voice, his _so good, werlaara, so good,_ the gentleness of his hands and the softness of his voice promising he meant it.

“I want to –” Boba whispered, and he pulled back to see Din’s face, the open desperation reflected there sending a pang of desire through him. Din nodded, breathing shallowly already, and _oh,_ this was what Boba _really_ wanted. He slid his hand downward, fingertips brushing the bulge of Din’s erection, and Din’s hips jerked forward immediately, pushing into his touch. The groan Din gave when Boba’s hand closed around him was sinful, and he trembled for it like Boba had already worked him over, eyes filled with a hopeful, needy plea.

Boba took a moment to just pause, giving light, exploratory strokes with his fingertips, wanted to feel everything he could. The thickness of him had Boba’s mouth going dry, and he could imagine the absolute fullness he’d feel when Din finally fucked him – Din would have to be told _how,_ wouldn’t he, and Boba was so eager to teach him, to hear the sounds Din would make when he discovered how good it would feel. Quiet, restrained little groans reached his ears, and Din’s cock twitched hard when Boba’s fingertips rested for too long. When Boba gave the head of his length a small squeeze, Din groaned deeply.

“Good?” Boba murmured, and Din squirmed helplessly, cock throbbing in Boba’s hand. His hand slid off Boba’s hip, and Boba was undone by a surge of affection for him, when he saw the way Din covered his face with his hands, cheeks crimson as precum soaked the material beneath Boba’s fingertips.

“Good,” Din whispered, like Boba needed to be told when he could feel the way Din’s dick jerked at his touch, his body telling Boba everything Din needed him to know, told Boba that he wasn’t used to this, that he wasn’t going to last very long. That while he was comfortable letting Boba see his face normally, he’d been caught off guard by how different this would feel, surprised at his own shyness but unable to overcome it, and the sounds spilling from him were his effort to let Boba know how he felt. The unsteady rhythm of his hips told Boba that he wanted to lose himself in how good it felt but wanted desperately for it not to be over so soon. Boba _understood_ him. 

Din rutted into Boba’s grip in helpless little jerks, and Boba began to stroke him more purposefully, faster, and he could read everything, in the way Din shuddered, how he turned his face against the bed and one hand moved to grasp the blanket beneath them tightly, the other still hiding his flushed cheeks and squeezed-shut eyes. His moans grew deeper, the shove of his hips into Boba’s grasp more jerky, and it only took a few moments before Din gave a punched-out groan and tensed up, then went boneless. He took his hand away from his face, still blushing scarlet, eyes shy, and Boba moved closer to nuzzle at the color high on Din’s cheeks. Din gathered Boba into his arms the moment he was close enough, like he agreed that was where Boba belonged.

Boba had wanted him for so long, so _desperately,_ and he could feel it that somehow, somehow, two things could be true: Boba was a clone, and Din loved him.

“I never knew what to do,” Boba admitted, heard the hoarseness of his own voice, the plea. “I love you so fucking much. I never wanted to deserve something so badly.”

Din buried his face against Boba’s neck and held him tight, and _this_ was the language they’d been missing, this was what they shared. The tremble in his breathing, the heat of his hands, Boba could understand what Din was saying through this. _You deserve this,_ he was saying, and Boba understood him perfectly.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS check out my new modern!au for din/boba!!! [A Matter Decided!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623102/chapters/70156122/)

Boba was going to go in, and face the clones. The plan almost seemed doable, right up until the moment where he had to actually _do_ it. Getting into the facility was easy, but obtaining access to buildings had never posed a problem for Boba. Din had asked about security systems and droids and alarms with a concerned frown, but Boba had already been thinking ahead, to the worst part. Din was going to the labs to intercept the child once Gideon arrived with it and Boba was going to find the clones, and at the moment where they were supposed to split up, Boba felt suddenly that he couldn’t _do_ it.

“Okay, you head down that way,” Din was saying, and Boba felt himself nodding along, even though he knew, he _knew,_ he couldn’t do it. Din was going to walk away and Boba would be frozen here, unable to go on, failing him – “It’s okay,” Din said, incredibly soft, like something about Boba was telling him everything he needed to know.

“You don’t understand,” Boba said, his breathing shallow, “They won’t trust me. I’m not one of them. I mean, I _am –”_ Because he was, he was a clone just like them, they were going to look at him and see that, and suddenly, that horribly familiar feeling was hitting him, the pulse-racing, panicky wave of terror. “Oh, shit,” he gasped out, squeezing his eyes shut. Not here, not _now,_ not about _this –_ it was supposed to just be because of the dark, because of being underground, not _clones._ Not _everything_ that scared him – it didn’t seem to matter, a shaky, sobbing fear welling up in his chest.

“ _Werlaara,_ it’s okay,” Din soothed, “Listen to me, okay? I’m here. I’m with you. We’re alright.” He tipped his helmet to Boba’s, and Boba tried hard to focus on the sound of his voice, on breathing in for five seconds, breathing out. “I’m sorry. You’re not going alone,” he said, but Boba _should have_ been able to go.

“Can’t do fucking anything anymore,” he choked out, “This never – it would never –” He didn’t understand why this had to happen to him, why it wouldn’t _stop._ He used to be able to do things without falling apart, but he’d said the words out loud for the first time, told Din he was a clone, and it had left him with nothing to stand on. But – Din was still here, and as terrifying as it was, to imagine him seeing the clones, for him to truly comprehend exactly what it meant for Boba to be a clone – at least he would be by Boba’s side. “I can do it,” Boba managed to get out, “Just – please stay. Please stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Din promised.

Boba stuck close to Din as he led the way down a hallway, towards the large room their scans of the building had shown. Boba’s heart refused to slow down and his breaths still rattled; Din didn’t understand the gravity of this. He’d heard that Boba was a clone while looking at only him, and it would feel different, when he saw all the exact copies.

Din got them into the sleeping quarters, a large, dimly-lit room with narrow aisles between rows of pull-out bunks. It was just like the first facility, with room for more and more clones, as-yet unfilled. Boba struggled not to reach for Din, looking determinedly only at the floor. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see any of it, it was just like the facility in his nightmares, just like the place his father would bring him and Boba would be wracked with terror that he’d get lost, and his father would bring home the wrong clone and never know it.

“Hey,” Din called out, soft. He kept moving forward, but Boba stopped short. Three bunks were pulled out farther ahead, two figures sitting up on the nearer two beds. “It’s alright,” Din was saying to them, his voice as gentle as it was when he spoke to the child. They were _young,_ Boba could see, recoiling. He didn’t want to get close enough to recognize their faces.

“Who’re you?” one asked, and Boba _saw_ it, Din’s tiny flinch of surprise. The clone sounded like Boba, and Boba bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound, heart hammering even faster. He hated this, _hated_ it, he hadn’t expected them to be so young. Din was going to see the way Boba used to be, and never look at him the same again.

“We’re here to help you guys.” Din had approached them, was looking between the three clones like he couldn’t quite believe their faces. Boba wrapped his arms tightly around himself, couldn’t make himself move. _He loves me,_ he reminded himself, but what did that mean, if Boba wasn’t an individual?

“What’s going on? Is he okay?” Din was leaning over the third clone, who lay motionless on the bed.

“We had part two last night,” the first clone said, his voice hard. He sounded _just like_ Boba.

“What’s your name?” Din asked, so very gentle. The clone’s shoulders relaxed just slightly, because Din was soft, Din was gentle and comforting, and suddenly, Boba was watching what would have happened if he’d met Din decades ago. If he’d been younger and less hurt, if he’d heard Din’s gentle voice back when he was seventeen like these clones – everything would have been different. Boba wanted to sob for what could have been, had never felt so damaged, so beyond saving.

“Hax,” the clone was telling him, “That’s Cade, and Tellan.”

Boba watched Din crouch down by the third bed, and his voice had dropped to a low murmur Boba couldn’t make out, as he touched the cheek of the sleeping clone, even the tiny movement soothing. He was so calm with them, wasn’t even looking between them in surprise to see the same face repeated twice, three times.

“Why are you guys here?” Cade asked, “Who are you?”

“The Empire took our child,” Din explained, and the _our_ drew Boba slightly closer; they were here together, _he_ was the one Din had chosen, and the child was theirs, theirs together. He’d told Din that the child would recognize him even in the covert, surrounded by Mandalorians; would the same be true for Boba? When their child came here, would it recognize Boba as the one who had sung it to sleep and held it when it cried? “We came to get it back, but we didn’t know about all of you guys. No one does, this is a secret facility. We’re going to try and get you all out.”

“How many of you are there?” Boba finally spoke up. He neared enough to see their faces, and it was haunting, like staring at himself in his own memories. Cade’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion; all Boba could see was the way he’d felt when he tried to join up with the syndicate, suspicious of the people who said they were going to be on his side, the people who _weren’t,_ in the end.

“Forty-three,” Hax said, and Boba stared at him for a moment, suddenly lost. Somehow, he _didn’t_ remind Boba of himself in the same way the other clone did. His eyes were wide with curiosity before suspicion, and Boba couldn’t recognize himself in that.

“That’s not very many,” Boba said, looking up at the rows of bunks. There would be more. If they didn’t stop this, there would be _so many more._ He remembered the filled pods at the first facility, could still feel how tightly he’d clung to his dad’s hand, the way it had felt when Jango pried his fingers open and told him _wait here,_ how Boba had stood rooted to the spot, terrified he was being forgotten, swept away with the rest. When his father had returned, Boba had cried so hard that Jango had to pick him up and hold him, and had later been reprimanded and told he had to set a good example. And Boba understood it to mean that he had to be the best one, to be the son, to be taken home instead of left there; it was no wonder, that in his nightmares, he never managed to escape the cloning facility, because he’d never learned how to be good enough.

“Manageable number,” Din said, and when Boba looked, Din was watching him. “Listen, you guys have to help us, okay?” Din said to the other clones, “We need everyone to know the plan.”

“How do we know it’s okay?” Cade asked, fidgeting with the blanket between his fingers. “What if we get split up?”

“I know it’s hard to trust someone you don’t know,” Din said softly. “I understand. When I was a kid, my village was attacked, and I was saved by strangers. It’s scary, even though you’re being saved, because you don’t know what you’re going _to._ It’s as unknown as the attack was. _”_ In the midst of everything, Boba’s heart could still break for him; Din was seeing himself in these clones, somehow, and how could Boba let them not be saved? It would be like telling Din that he hadn’t deserved to be saved.

“It’s okay,” Boba said, and he knew what he had to do, to convince them it was safe. His hands trembled as he unlatched his helmet, and he took it off, held it tightly in his hands as he watched the two clones look at him with wide eyes. Recognizing him.

“You’re one of us?” Cade whispered, and Boba bit his lip, couldn’t bring himself to nod. It was obvious, anyways. He remembered being so, so young, seeing the older clones and knowing that would be _him,_ in some deep, unshakeable way he couldn’t quite articulate. _That’s me,_ he’d thought, and surviving up until then had felt pointless – why bother, if there were already clones of him? It had felt like a prophesy and a redundancy.

“We have more brothers?” Cade was asking Din, and how had Boba forgotten, the way the clones referred to each other? He’d never been one of them in that sense. Chained to them, but never _included._ When he’d been very little, that had been the part that hurt the most, which had seemed laughable later.

“Just him,” Din said softly.

“Are you… the original one?” Hax asked, brows furrowed in confusion. Cade’s head tilted as though to echo the question, and Boba’s shoulders slumped.

“No.” Because even now, he was nothing special. The rest of the clones in his batch were dead, but there was a new group now, and he was just part of that. “Just a clone.” He put his helmet back on, but the two clones continued to stare at him. The confusion on their faces was _his,_ and it felt like he’d never be able to hide his face again. “Get everyone else up,” Boba directed, “We sent for a transport ship, and when Gideon gets here, we’ll kill him and get you guys out.” And then – then even if he never saw another clone again, would it matter? He’d still know.

“Who’s Gideon?” Cade asked. 

“He’s the one doing all this, making the Force-sensitive clone army,” Boba said, and Cade’s face went dark. Boba saw it, the way Din’s head tilted in concern, how pulling himself away from them would be a struggle. “I’ll stay with them,” Boba offered, though the words were hard to force out. Din would never be able to walk away from them, leave them alone. “We’ll tell the other clones, see if we can get them armed, and you go intercept him at the labs.”

“They’re coming to take us back to the lab,” Hax added, “As soon as we’re supposed to wake up.”

“Probably means Gideon will have brought the child by then,” Din said, “When is that?”

“I don’t know, maybe an hour?” Hax said.

“We should get going,” Boba said, and Din nodded. He looked at Boba for a long moment, and Boba forced himself not to ask Din to stay, not to _leave_ him. Din wanted to save these clones, and Boba would do anything for him, even this. He headed for the door to keep watch, and when he looked back over his shoulder, Din was leaning over the third clone, the one who had laid still the entire time; Din was murmuring to him and stroking his hair, and the way Cade watched him, Boba knew that whatever experiment was being done on the clones, Tellan wasn’t going to survive it. Boba didn’t have to see Din’s face to know it was destroying him, that this was akin to losing a child, for him. If Din could love a clone, of course, of course he would be devastated to lose a clone child. Boba wasn’t going to let him lose any more. 

The hallway outside the sleeping quarters was still empty; Boba kept looking from side to side, every muscle tensed, and he almost hoped something _would_ come, wanted to be stopped, wanted noise and commotion and anything but the characteristic silence of a lab. The footsteps he did hear were just Din’s, recognizable even before Boba turned towards the sound, to watch Din. Din kept looking back at the clones, like tearing himself away took physical effort, resisting a magnetic pull. Mandalorians and foundlings and the bone-deep need to save them, Boba thought; maybe this was why he’d never felt like a Mandalorian. He’d gone this long without saving anyone. His father had plucked a clone from the masses and abandoned it, creating a foundling with his own death and deliberate failure to provide it any family. Even foundlings were found within a cradle of history; clones stood alone.

Boba wasn’t expecting it, when Din pulled him into his arms; he gave a surprised little sound and clung to Din like it was a reflex, flailing towards the safe place he’d suddenly found himself.

“I need every single one of them to be okay,” Din said, his voice heavy with a plea. “If there’s anyone who can do something like this, it’s you.”

_Only for you,_ Boba thought, because this wasn’t something he could have done before. From the safety of Din’s arms, Boba thought that now – he could do it now. He was nothing when he was a legend, and he didn’t know what he was now, but he could feel something within himself that responded to Din like an instinct, a gut-level need to be dependable for him. He was the only one who could do this, for Din, and only because of what he was.

“They trust me,” Boba managed, “Because – I’m one of them. They see themselves in me.” Was it as terrifying for them, as it was for him? Maybe it was worse, for them. He saw himself in the midst of the awful things he’d done, and to them, he was a mirror for what they could become. _Could,_ though, and the word sat heavy in his mouth, unspoken; it wasn’t _would._

“All that means,” Din said, and he tilted his helmet to Boba’s, that tiny gesture that had been theirs since nearly the very beginning, “Is that you feel like home to them. It’s not a bad thing.”

What was home before Din, Boba tried to remember, as Din walked away down the hallway, back towards the lab, towards their child. Home was ever-shifting ground, was a planet watery and cold, was Boba asking his father _what are their names_ and his father blinking at him in confusion. Boba closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath.

Home now was Din’s gentle voice and the way he called Boba a word for _legend_ that felt made up just for him, constructed of all the monumental things that had happened between them, every galaxy-changing touch of Din’s fingertips and the tremble in Boba’s hands when he grabbed onto Din in the wake of almost losing him.

A while passed, as the two clones went to alert the others, the hallway remaining empty outside the sleeping quarters. At least they were speaking quietly, and Boba couldn’t make out any voices, anything that would sound familiar. Eventually, one of the clones walked up to him, stood in silence for a moment, looking at Boba with haunting eyes. He felt like home to Boba, too, but – the old home. He rubbed his tear-stained cheeks in the same way, with an almost-bruising harshness, a stubborn refusal to cry. Boba didn’t know which of the two clones this was, guilt stirring in his stomach at the realization. Din would know.

“We have to go with them, don’t we?” the clone before him said. “I hear them.” Boba hadn’t heard anything, but when he listened closer, far down the hallway, there was the sound of a droid’s metallic footsteps. There wasn’t time to get all the clones out before it arrived, and Din had said, he’d said _every single one._ Boba could take out the droid, but then they’d be hurried, then there’d be room for mistakes, for losses. Easiest to get forty-however-many out and grab the three out of the lab when he doubled back.

“Yeah. You three go, and –”

“Two.”

“What?”

“Two. Tellan’s dead.” The clone crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching, gave Boba a beseeching look, clearly asking for help, and suddenly looked completely unfamiliar to Boba. _That’s not me,_ was all he could think, and maybe that was what compelled him to yank the child into his arms, hug him tightly. The façade crumbled as soon as the kid clung to him in an achingly familiar way.

“Where’s –”

“Hax. I’m Cade.” Cade let go immediately, and Boba swallowed back shame. The kid knew he couldn’t tell them apart. He could barely see them as distinct from himself.

“I know that.” Did they know _him_ well enough to hear that he was lying? Probably. Cade pulled away from him as Hax neared, and there was no time for an apology or explanation or anything Din would have done to make it better, no time to do anything but duck out of sight and let the droid whisk away the two remaining batchmates.

The next part was hard in an entirely different way; the other clones were older, they were trained and obeyed Boba’s instructions without protest, and he was back on Kamino again, leading the 501st against the other clones. Cara comm’d him briefly to give him directions to the back of the facility, where a transport ship was going to land on the other side of the hill, and to Boba, it was just –

Blank hallways, endless and –

Every corner and it could be waiting for him, but he couldn’t turn around, last time –

He’d turned around and he was back in the dark, and it was whispering _they don’t have names, Boba, they’re clones –_ but no, that wasn’t the Sarlacc’s voice –

“Are you really a clone, too?” one of them asked, in his voice.

The blank hallways, and he’d only escape this if he did everything perfectly right, Din said _every single one_ and his father had said _set a good example_ and he’d taken it as a warning –

The door swung open, he shot four security droids in rapid succession, beyond the door was an endless desert and sand beneath his boots, but the hallway, he was still in the hallway – he told the clones to go, the ship would be waiting, soon, soon, and he’d stay, he’d – not escape –

An alarm, blaring, the clones leaving to meet the ship, and _every single one_ but there were still two left, two batchmates, and that word had always chilled Boba, he’d wondered _who were mine,_ because they all grew up so much quicker than him, left him alone, but had someone been there at the beginning? He hadn’t been made alone, had he?

_Tellan’s dead,_ and what had they thought when he disappeared, taken away to be something else? Had they even known he was there, in the beginning? Had they resented him, for being lucky or unlucky and _Tellan’s dead,_ Cade had said, but when he’d said it he could have been Hax, Boba hadn’t known. The hallways were blank and so were the faces, all the same –

“Fett!” he heard, and jumped at the sound of Cara’s voice through the comlink. The wind whipping past the open door made him step back, and his chest ached with the sound of the door slamming. 

“What?” he snapped, harsh, too harsh, but his breathing was ragged and the wind had blown sand into the hallway and the crunch of it beneath his boots put him back in his nightmare, the floor turning to sand and the dark following as soon as he turned around –

“I said, are you okay?”

“ _What?”_

“Can you not hear me? I just – _are you okay?”_

“Clones are out.”

“I know that, didn’t you hear me before?”

“I’m not – I can’t hear– anything,” he muttered, squeezed his eyes shut. “Start over.” The alarm kept blaring, and a thunk sounded overhead; when he opened his eyes, it was pitch black – _dark dark dark –_ red strobe lights flashed but it was dark and small and –

“Gideon landed,” he heard distantly. “He’s got the kid. Din’s okay, he’s waiting in the lab for Gideon. Transport ship pilot is incoming to the rendezvous point. Go back Din up.”

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he pressed his back against the wall and a sob forced its way from his throat, a hysterical panic building in his chest, maybe he was asleep and any moment he would wake up and be – where, back in the Sarlacc? Still in the lab? He didn’t want to wake up –

“Fett? Hey,” Cara’s voice was suddenly loud in his ear. “Don’t – just – don’t – come on, you’re okay, don’t – do that.”

“I’m not!” he snarled, but it was reaching for him to drag him down, sobs wrenching from his chest as he struggled to breathe. There had been clones, he’d gone so deep into the dream he’d found the clones and he was alone, they’d escaped and he was the one alone, it was dark, it was the Sarlacc and the lab and he was never going to escape, he _never had_ escaped –

“Think about Din!” Cara said loudly, “Okay? Din, who fucking loves you so much and needs you to go find him. Okay? Din, and your kid, they need you.” Boba swallowed hard, hands gripping his thighs tight as he bent over to try and breathe, and he pressed his fingertips in, one after the other, counting to five. Back. Forward. IG-11’s monotone voice in his head, Cara’s insistent voice in his ear. “Get moving, alright? Tell me you’re moving.”

“I am,” Boba choked out, and he pushed himself off the wall, took steps in the right direction. Towards Din. Their kid. Further into the dark, a different dark, a different lab – he’d wake up from this dream soon and Din would be beside him, whispering _I love you_ and _Werlaara._ He’d go home, and home was Din’s voice and his warmly dark eyes and their tiny, chirping child safely back in his arms–

“Good,” Cara said, like she was coaxing him down the hallway. Blank, endless, _dark_ – “Hey,” Cara said, and maybe she could hear the hitch of his breathing, if not the wild racing of his heart. “I ever tell you what he said to me about you on Sorgan?”

“No.” Boba drew in a shaking breath. The hallway was eerily empty. Did they know he was here? Did the sensors even care, because he _belonged here,_ a clone among clones. “You – you don’t talk to me. Of course not,” he forced the words out through his teeth, easier to focus on speaking than on the darkness and the _endlessness._ He wasn’t waking up, he wasn’t escaping, had he _ever_ gotten out of the lab? 

“He said you changed him. Two days in, and he was already gone over you. Didn’t have to even see his face to know the way he was looking at you.”

“I left him there.” It was better, to be back on Sorgan. Not here, the lab, the darkness at his back, forcing himself to turn corners there could be anything around, once he’d been on Sorgan and he’d once escaped the lab – the lights were still on at the upper level, but he was passing the pods, the endless, waiting pods –

“Sure didn’t stop him, did it? He loves you, Fett. Keep going, you’re nearly there.”

“How – how do you know that? That he loves me?” Boba struggled to keep his shallow breathing under control, and he kept looking over his shoulder, waiting to find it suddenly dark again, inescapable.

“I know it because I’m not stupid. Go right, you should be able to get in through the other side.” He passed labs, cots where he was sat down and would stay perfectly still, petrified – “Transport ship is incoming, landing now. Shit’s happening in that room, lots of heat signatures –”

“He’s okay?”

“Needs you,” Cara said, and finally, Boba was throwing open the right door, it wasn’t clones waiting for him in the lab, it was Din and their kid, waiting somewhere–

“Hey!” Boba roared at the sight of Nivenkan, Stormtroopers in the doorway, and Gideon, and the _child,_ their child, its little ears and its tiny hands – “Get away from the kid,” Boba ground out. Where was Din? Boba’s heart was hammering against his ribs.

“I was just explaining to Nivenkan about the chips the original clones had,” Gideon said, and Boba felt his knees go weak. “And the need to reinstate the protocol. It was a mistake to let Jango convince the lab you didn’t need one.”

_I don’t have one,_ and wouldn’t that have been a relief to hear, ten years ago, twenty, thirty, after he’d learned that the other clones had chips that could override _everything,_ who they were, because they were _nothing,_ if they could be overridden like that.

“Hey,” Cara’s voice in his ear, “movement coming your way – three guys –”

“Don’t shoot him,” Nivenkan said, “An unaltered clone would greatly accelerate my research. Capture him.”

They came from behind Boba, just like Cara had warned, but he was doing all the wrong things, looking towards the child when he should have been watching the doors, he was fighting back but there were three of them, _grabbing_ at him, pinning him, and suddenly there were _five_ of them –

“Hey!” he snarled, as if that would stop them, but they were wrenching his blaster from his hand, he kicked away from one and the arm he grabbed snapped under his assault, but then he was being wrenched away – desperation beat a pattern against his ribs, a frantic clawing at his chest, and across the room, in the doorway – _Din,_ there he was, and everything in Boba _ached_ at the sight of him, the wrongness of the lab between them – _he’s mine, he’s mine,_ howled in Boba’s mind, as he struggled and thrashed.

“I will let you leave,” Gideon’s voice was calm, so calm. He was raising a blaster in Din’s direction. “You can even take the child, which I think is a very generous offer.”

“Very,” Din’s voice was hard. “How considerate.”

_Me,_ Boba’s heart whimpered, _he wants me, too._ He knew it, he could see it in the fury coiled in Din’s chest, the barely contained violence ready to burst forth from his gentle hands.

“You sound like Fett, now,” Gideon said, “he was never pleasant to negotiate with, either. It’s your choice.” He looked at Boba with a cool neutrality on his face, a smugness just beneath the ice, and it took Boba a moment to realize why. He stopped fighting.

It wasn’t Din that Gideon was offering this choice to. It was Boba. Din would never be able to leave without him, and if Boba loved him enough to die for him– i _f you stay here to die like a clone,_ Gideon was telling him, _Din can live._

“Din,” Boba called to him, soft, and he knew Din would understand. Din always understood him. Gideon was wrong about what it meant, if Boba stayed here. It didn’t matter what they did to him, didn’t matter that he was genetically the same as every single other clone, didn’t matter that he’d been created here and would die here. He’d escaped this lab once, he’d gone and found a name for himself in the way it felt when he met Din, when he _became_ something that was born of the desire to be better, to be _good._

Boba wouldn’t die like a clone. Din was going to survive, rescue their child and live, with the memory of a brief, heartfelt legend only he’d known, because Boba would die like a man in love.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re looking for something else to read, I also just started a modern!au din/boba where they’re lawyers!! [A Matter Decided!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623102/chapters/70156122)

“Don’t leave!”

The voice was Boba’s. And – it wasn’t. It was Boba at seventeen, finally screaming aloud what had been burning through his veins since the moment he’d been left entirely alone. It was Cade, pleading with Din across the lab, like Din being a lifeline was ingrained in Fett DNA. “They’ll – they’ll do the same thing to him –”

And Din, Boba could _see_ his hesitation, wanted to beg like Din had, _don’t let me die not knowing you’re both okay._ Boba had refused to do that for him, back then, and he hadn’t realized how it would _hurt_ to die without knowing _–_ the Stormtroopers’ grip on him was painfully tight and Boba thought he might crumple to the ground for how his chest ached with the uncertainty, not seeing Din leave safely with the child, how could he stay here not _knowing_ they were okay?

Gideon was speaking into a comlink, and Nivenkan gestured to the Stormtroopers holding Boba, said “Take him to Lab B,” and –

_“No!”_ Boba’s young voice again, _Cade,_ all the anguish that had been burning him alive, and the room exploded with blue light. The Stormtroopers were thrown backwards, their grip abruptly gone from Boba’s arms, and he stood alone, breathing hard and shaken from the sudden stillness encasing him, even as broken glass and equipment flew towards the walls, a shattering hail hitting the floor. Gideon had dropped to the floor, Din’s blaster still pointed at where he’d stood, and all Boba could see was Nivenkan still holding the child.

“It worked,” he heard Nivenkan say, sounding giddy with excitement, and Boba bolted to the other side of the room and dove across the lab table in one immediate move. He snatched the child out of Nivenkan’s arms, dropped to one knee to grab Gideon’s blaster from beside his body, and shot Nivenkan. Boba clutched the child to his chest, exhaled a shaking breath as he looked down at the child.

Everything quieted around him, the child the only thing he could see, unable to hold any thought other than _my baby, my baby,_ his child was back in his arms and whatever else Boba had ever been – whatever else he’d ever done – he was _here,_ for his child.

“We’re back,” he whispered, the child peacefully asleep and so perfectly tiny, and he thought his heart might be breaking at the sight. Boba rocked it gently, wanted it to somehow feel comforted even in its sleep, something to ward off nightmares and promise that when it woke up, it would be _safe._

The sirens wailing overhead broke through his attention abruptly, and when Boba looked up, he saw Din, Cade collapsed in his arms, Hax clinging to him, and their terrified faces were impossible to look at. He could feel Din’s panic, the heave of his chest and the frantic glances between Cade and Hax telling Boba he was struggling to understand what had just happened. The Stormtroopers across the room were dead, killed by a burst of Force energy that could only have come from a Fett clone, because who besides a clone could feel that threatened, that angry? If Boba had possessed that ability, how many rooms across the galaxy would have ended up like this one, filled with blue light and destruction?

Boba took a few tentative steps towards Din, hugged the child closer to him protectively. “Let’s get out,” he said, tried not to look at the two clones, because when they were this terrified, they looked _just like him._

“ _Werlaara,”_ Din murmured, and Boba didn’t know how, if it was the tone of his voice or the tilt of his head or how tightly he held Cade against his broad chest, but Boba suddenly understood that Din was _afraid._ Everyone had been saved– all the clones, their baby, Boba, and Din looked almost too stricken to move, shaken by the close call. Boba straightened his shoulders and led the way out, the way Din had when they were underground and the world was crumpling in around Boba, just like this.

Leaving the facility felt like turning his back on a pit of darkness; it would be there, if he turned around, just over his shoulder, but it wasn’t all around him.

Back aboard the Crest, Boba watched Din settle Cade on the bed before hurrying up to the cockpit, and even the few seconds it took said so much – the way he paused to squeeze Cade’s shoulder, reached out to touch Hax’s elbow and turned his head to check on Boba and the child, the way his boot slipped on the second rung of the ladder, the sound of his quick footsteps overhead. Boba ached to make him feel safe again.

He inched closer to the bed, where Hax was kneeling on the floor beside it, Cade curled in on himself on the mattress, still trembling. Boba had seen Jedi use the Force before, but never quite like that, never in an angry, violent burst that took down a whole room, never by a _clone,_ and the damage they could wreak, with that much hurt to fuel it – Boba drew in a steadying breath, forced himself to think of the way Din had held Cade, like he was no different than the child in Boba’s arms, and reached for him the way Din would.

“Everything’s okay,” Boba offered softly, leaned into the compartment to pull a blanket closer, tucked it around Cade’s shoulders – it was so familiar that Boba could have been seventeen again, the heels of Cade’s hands pressed to his eyes as he sniffled, curled into himself like the loneliness and hurt couldn’t reach him there. “We’re leaving, you’re okay now. We’ve got you guys.” Hax turned hopeful eyes up to him, the expression rendering his face entirely unfamiliar.

They were still here, the two of them; surely the transport ship had left without them. Boba ducked his head to gaze down at the child, its sleepy murmurs as it gradually woke stilling something terrified in his chest. Din was going to worry what would happen to these two clones, just like the child.

Din reappeared after they were safely en route and away from the facility; he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and from the look of grateful relief that appeared on Din’s face at the sight of them, Boba knew the clones were Din’s foundlings as much as the child was. He looked at them like nothing could convince him of their safety but having them within arm’s reach.

“Hey,” Din said softly, and it was still there, the tremor that said he was still reeling, even as he came closer, touched the child’s back with two fingertips, the child murmuring happily in response.

“Little one’s fine. Completely fine. Not even freaked out,” Boba said, hoped that handing Din this miracle would ease him into a feeling of safety. Din nodded, and he looked so _lost,_ like he’d found the galaxy entirely unfamiliar. He cupped Boba’s cheek in one hand, traced his thumb along Boba’s jaw, and it was so tentative, a reverent sort of disbelief.

“Maybe it knew we were coming.” Din bent to kiss the top of the child’s head, and then he moved to sit on the floor beside Hax, his movements sleepwalker-slow; Boba wanted to soothe away his near-miss daze. He watched the way Din looked at Hax, saw how he managed to hide his worry on his normally helplessly expressive face, for Hax.

“You’ll stay together,” Din told him, and the way Hax smiled – it was like he wasn’t a clone at all.

It didn’t take long for both of the boys to fall asleep; Cade’s trembling eventually eased, and once Hax climbed onto the bed to pass out beside him, Cade followed suit. Din watched their every move with just-passed-worried eyes, everything about him a tired, barely stilled nervousness. Boba sank down beside him, shifted the drowsy child so it could sprawl more comfortably across his lap, and pressed closer to Din.

“Back to D’Qar?” he asked, and Din nodded. “They’re not rejoining the rest of the clones, are they?”

“Too valuable to the Empire,” Din said, voice hoarse. “They don’t want to put their brothers at risk. All they want is to stay together.” He tilted his head to look over at Boba, and _oh,_ he looked like he was ready to fall apart, Boba could see the words on the tip of his tongue, how Din hadn’t wanted to leave him, how afraid he’d been for Boba.

“We can go over the plan later,” Boba said, though it wasn’t so much the plan as the much more painful aftermath, a floundering recovery. “The kid’s okay. Everyone’s okay.” Din nodded along, and when he moved close enough to tilt his head down to Boba’s shoulder, Boba had to swallow back a whimper.

“You’re okay?” Din whispered, sounding so tired and wrung-out it made the terror of everything wash away, the only thing left Boba’s concern for him.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He slid his hand onto Din’s thigh hesitantly, knew how it felt to be anchored by the way Din had touched him, like his hand in Boba’s was the last thing holding him in place. Din gave a small sigh, and before long, he’d gone heavy against Boba’s side, head down on his shoulder, sleeping as deeply as the boys.

“Ba?” Boba heard, looked down to find the child blinking up at him, looking more clear-eyed and awake, and Boba smiled in relief.

“Hey, kiddo,” he whispered, as the child stretched and curled its hand in the front of his shirt. “Everything’s okay now. I’m sorry things were scary for a while, but you were so brave.” The child cooed happily, ears wiggling as Boba hugged it closer. It hummed up at him, recognizable as the song Boba always resorted to, when he was singing the child to sleep, the one about the little warrior that his father had sung to him. “Yeah, that’s you,” Boba said, blinked back tears. “Our little warrior. You’ve been really brave.”

_Ours,_ he could say about the child. He couldn’t help but glance over at the two teenagers asleep on the bed, uneasiness stirring in his stomach, and he’d _seen_ the way Din looked at them. Fiercely protective already, gutted by it, Din’s willingness to call the child his own apparently not just a one-time thing but an ingrained instinct. Even with clones. _Foundlings,_ Din insisted on calling them, but if Boba thought of every clone as a foundling, the clone army became a collection of willingly abandoned children, and the two clones they’d kept became just like the child, lost and then found. Boba became not someone who had been created without a history and was deservedly alone, but a child who had been orphaned.

_Ours,_ Din would say about these two clones, too, and he would be heartbroken if Boba couldn’t love them. They looked just like him. He didn’t know how to make Din understand how it felt, to be faced with a perfect mirror of everything that had hurt him. When Din saw hurt, scared kids, Boba found himself back in the prison cell where he’d spend each night shaking with the fear he’d suppress during every waking hour, and it was selfish and self-centered to see only himself in the two clones, but they looked at him with the same frightened eyes and Boba was undone. Reminded. Like he’d never survived it at all.

There was something about near-misses that always left Boba feeling unsteady; he’d been consumed by fear and helpless acceptance and hurt, and the need for it all had dissipated when he escaped. When he hadn’t died. It was the opposite of the Sarlacc, where the anger and terror had time to build up and then slowly bleed away, as he was unable to sustain the heightened sense of awareness for a year straight. This was to be yanked to safety mid-way, and Boba was left feeling saved in an unsteady way, more like he’d stumbled and reeled.

The prospect of returning to D’Qar filled Boba with a nervous energy that seemed to feed off every other pent-up emotion he felt. He couldn’t keep still, pacing and fidgeting and always returning to wherever Din was. Din’s steady calm drew him in, and his clear relief was the answer to Boba’s frantic, silent pleas. _I almost had to stay at the lab,_ everything in him would howl, but it would miraculously go silent whenever he saw the way Din looked at him.

_You’re safe,_ the look on Din’s face said, every time, and Boba could feel it settle into his chest, a warm and comforting weight to steady him, as something in him purred with agreement. He was safe; he was back with Din, he wasn’t at the lab, he was safe. They hadn’t talked about it yet, and sometimes Din’s gaze would linger like he was about to ask, but so far they hadn’t been alone at the right moment. When Boba rejoined him in the cockpit with the child in his arms, as they were landing on D’Qar, he could feel that this time, Din was going to ask.

“I assume we’re checking in with Leia,” Boba said, and Din nodded without turning around; D’Qar swam below the ship, a spread of treetops beneath them as Din piloted the ship towards a small clearing. “Surprised she doesn’t want us to present in front of a bunch of generals,” Boba said, watching Din’s hands move over the panel controls. “Thought she’d have had to hand this off to someone higher up.”

“I think she did. But as far as they know, all the clones –” Din said, and Boba flinched at the words, _all the clones,_ “–are on the transport ship they sent to a different base, and we didn’t come back here.”

“Ba,” the child added, nodding emphatically. It was probably right, ironically; no doubt Boba was the reason their involvement was being kept covert. Surely the Resistance wouldn’t be happy to hear he’d been part of this.

“We’ll tell her everything we saw, and she’ll get it to the right people.” Din had finished landing the ship, and he turned towards Boba; his expression softened, relief in his eyes at the sight of Boba. This time, it was tinged with worry, and Boba knew he was finally going to have to talk about it. “That almost… almost went really badly.”

Boba was ready to talk about it, he was, but he wasn’t ready for the curl of fear that coiled in his stomach, the way the worry in Din’s eyes made him remember the frantic way Din had looked between him and the Storm troopers, like he was trying to figure out a way to save Boba at all costs. Din held a hand out towards him, and Boba moved closer gratefully, sank down to sit on the edge of the seat. He pressed closed to Din, the warm weight of him immediately comforting.

“Almost. You were supposed to take the kid and leave me.”

“I know.” Din touched the child’s tiny hand where it grasped Boba’s shirt. “I don’t know what that makes me.” Because the Mandalorians would have told him to save the child. Because no Mandalorian would have risked anything to save Boba. Din hadn’t been able to leave him.

“Mine?” Boba suggested softly, the most world-shattering of all the answers. The doubt left Din’s face, and he leaned in to kiss Boba; Boba couldn’t help a whimper, overwhelmed at the smallest touch.

“That’s true,” Din said, and though they’d landed, he didn’t make a move to get up yet, just pulled Boba into his side and kept him there for a long moment. _He’s mine,_ Boba kept reminding himself, the truth of it seeping into him through the heat of Din’s body against his. Boba hadn’t yet tried to sleep since leaving the lab, and he wondered if this would make its way into his nightmare, ending it, because he’d been lost in a lab and he’d been saved.

Boba tried to hold on to the safe, comforted feeling, even as they made their way into the Resistance base, the child in his arms and the clones trailing along after Din. Boba had left his armor behind again, though he didn’t think he’d feel any more hidden if he had it on, not with the two clones accompanying them. Cade wore Boba’s apprehension on his face, and when Leia looked at Boba and then the clones, he could see recognition on her face.

“I’m glad you guys are alright,” Leia said, “You’ve – well. You’ve done a really big thing, here.” She leaned to see around Din; the two clones were nearly hiding behind him. _Fett DNA_ , Boba thought; there was something about Din that spoke to him on a molecular level, Din’s particular feeling of safeness the perfect answer to the kind of protection he needed.

“Hi,” one of the clones offered. The other one had curled his hand around Din’s elbow. Surely Din could already tell them apart; if Boba asked him how, though, would he look disappointed? He would try and hide it, but it would flicker across his expressive face immediately, and Boba would want to curl up with guilt. _They’re clones,_ he’d want to beg defensively, _we’re all the same._ He studied them for a long moment – the curious tilt to one’s head, the way the other curled in towards Din, and maybe they weren’t the same, not exactly.

“Are all our brothers okay?” the other clone asked, his voice small.

“Absolutely. We took them to one of our other bases, one that handles more civilian aid programs,” Leia assured. Maybe this wasn’t the first time clones had come to them. Maybe there had been others before, years ago, decades, and Boba fought off the shudder that ran down his spine, the claustrophobic feeling it brought down on him.

“Shall we get going?” Leia turned to the keypad hidden on the small hillside wall, and the door slid open. She beckoned them through, and the child cooed at Boba, ears twitching.

“Don’t worry,” Boba murmured, as he watched Din and the clones follow Leia. “This isn’t like the other place. They’re the good guys, so you don’t have to worry. We’ll just tell her what happened, and go home.” The child hummed in agreement and put its head down on Boba’s shoulder; it leaned into him with its whole weight, as little as that was, and Boba rubbed its back to soothe it to sleep. He watched the way Din kept looking back at the two clones, a concerned tilt to his head, his clear impulse to reach for them only barely restrained.

Leia brought them to the base’s medical wing, where they were joined by one of her colleagues, with a small droid at her heels. “We’ll go debrief,” Leia told Din, “and the kids can get checked out?”

Din… didn’t disagree. Boba bit his lip, kept waiting for Din to protest, as Leia turned to the two boys, introducing them to Dr. Madari. _It’ll feel like a lab,_ Boba tried to make himself say the words out loud, but maybe he was wrong. Din was surely better at this, would know what the two boys needed better than Boba did. The first time Boba had seen the inside of a medical center after the cloning lab had been in prison, getting checked out on the first day of his sentence, and the urge to thrash and scream, out of his mind with terror that the medical wing was just another lab, that this was his real punishment – he’d fought to get away and had to be restrained, hysterical with panic –

“Actually,” Din interrupted, and Boba felt a knot in his chest loosen. “I’ll stay with them.” He turned to Boba, a tentative tilt to his head. “Okay?” Boba nodded. Din understood, Boba was so grateful he understood. 

“We’ll catch up with you then,” Leia said, and she tilted her head at Boba to indicate he should follow her, a gesture not entirely unlike Din’s. She kept looking between Boba and the two clones, and Boba didn’t know how to interpret the look on her face. He followed her down the hallway in silence, glanced over his shoulder before they turned a corner; Cade was clutching Din’s hand and Hax stuck close by his other side, as they followed the doctor in the opposite direction.

“They’ll be fine, I promise,” Leia said, making Boba flinch a little.

“I know.”

“You looked worried,” Leia glanced back at him, and Boba shrugged the shoulder the child wasn’t slumped against. The child had fallen deeply asleep, giving tiny snores.

“Just… thought the medical stuff might freak them out,” Boba mumbled. “It’s similar to the cloning facility. Makes you think you’re going back.”

“Hmm.” Leia went silent again. The few people they passed in the hallways didn’t seem to give them more than a passing glance, the only thing of interest clearly the child, drawing fond looks from people they passed as it slept on Boba’s shoulder. Leia brought him to an office with a name on the door that wasn’t hers, and locked the door as Boba edged further into the room, tentatively sank down in one of the armchairs across from a desk. “I don’t want to be interrupted this time,” she explained, as she came to sit in the other armchair. Boba leaned further back, fought the uneasy shifting of his shoulders, the urge to curl away.

“You don’t want Solo around for protection?” he sneered, because maybe it would hide the anxiousness coursing through him at the thought of Han Solo showing up again. Boba hated him, hated the way Han made him feel, that it was so _easy_ to be hurt that even Han could manage it with a shot in the dark.

“Oh, please,” Leia rolled her eyes, “You’re holding a baby. Now, would you like to explain how you came to acquire two _more_ children?”

“They’re clones,” Boba said, though he wasn’t sure if she would think he was elaborating or correcting her. Guiltily, he knew it was the latter. “The Empire was going to create another clone army, and use the child’s DNA to try and make the clones Force-sensitive.”

“Clones of you, huh?” Leia’s gaze on him was unwavering, every time Boba risked a glance. He tried to stare determinedly downwards instead.

“Not technically, no. You know I’m not the… original.” He caught sight of Leia nodding and kept his head down. “They’re using my father’s DNA again. The lab’s been destroyed though, so… maybe that’s the end of it.”

“Did you ever get to know any of the clones?” Leia asked, and Boba scowled in her direction, but quickly shied away from the piercing way she looked at him.

“Did _you?”_

“Not directly, but my father told me about the ones he knew. Good things.” Probably prompted by his startled look, Leia went on, “my father, who raised me. Bail Organa. Not…”

“Yeah. _That_ one told _me_ about the clones.” Boba shifted, looked down to peek at the child, who still slept soundly. He stroked its back anyways, covered it with the palm of his hand. The child burrowed closer in its sleep.

“What did he tell you about them?” Leia asked, and Boba regretted mentioning it immediately, didn’t know what had compelled him to do so. The way she looked at him, maybe, like she’d already decided he was going to confess everything he knew. That fucking everything-will-work-out Skywalker belief; Luke was buoyed by it, but Leia wielded it like a weapon.

“That he’d kill me before I ever had the chance to follow any orders a chip in my head gave me.” It had been the very beginning of his time working for the Empire; it had been the way he learned that Vader already knew he was a clone, to find out that his original reputation had preceded him. To be grabbed without hands by the throat, held struggling, and told _I already know what you are._

_I don’t have a chip, I don’t have a chip,_ he’d gasped, and then he was dropped to his hands and knees on the stone floor, choking for breath, fear thundering through his veins as he wondered _do I?_ The fact that Vader didn’t kill him on the spot was the closest thing he’d had to proof that there was no chip, before Gideon confirmed it in the lab. It had never truly mattered, though; he _could_ have. Other clones had chips. Boba was no less easily erased than them, a missing chip more of a fluke than proof he was unchangeable, unlosable.

“There isn’t one,” Boba added, tried to sound like he’d known all along, like he hadn’t spent years terrified that there wasn’t something traitorous living inside him, able to overwrite everything he thought he was.

Leia made a thoughtful sound, and stayed silent. Boba fidgeted, gaze sliding to the window behind the desk. The shades were pulled, and he couldn’t see what lay beyond it. Probably – probably not a lab.

“So you found the kids at the cloning facility?” Leia prompted, after a long, silent moment. Boba nodded. “And now you two are keeping them?”

“I don’t know,” Boba said, though the instinct that told him about Din was saying _yes._ “Probably,” he added, in deference to it. “I don’t know _how,_ though. One of them, the Force-sensitivity treatment worked on him, and he’s… it’s dangerous,” he said, to appease the way Din would rear back if he heard Boba call Cade himself dangerous. “Really powerful, like Cade doesn’t know how to direct it. He managed to – it was like an explosion. Destroyed everything in the room, killed the Stormtroopers, all five of them in one go. And – we don’t know shit about the Force, I don’t know what he thinks we can do for them.”

Well – he knew. Din thought they could give Cade and Hax a home, that feeling found would help whatever else they had to heal. Din wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t _know._ To him, the Force was what the child could do; had he ever even seen a Jedi fight? Experienced the disorienting way a blaster suddenly felt useless, because how could you fight a force you couldn’t _see?_

A knock on the door made Boba flinch, but Leia rose smoothly to her feet and went to open the door. Boba turned to watch, saw the doctor from earlier.

“There’s some information I’d like to go over with,” she paused, “I guess I never got his name. Anyways, he asked if their other dad could stay with them while we talk about treatments.” 

It took Boba a moment to realize she was talking about _him,_ didn’t truly understand it until Leia turned and gave him an expectant look. “Oh, uh. I’m coming,” he said, though following Dr. Madari felt like signing an agreement, saying _yes, I’m also their father._ He slid past Leia without catching her eye, but then she was reaching out to snag his elbow, and he was forced to meet her gaze anyways.

“I’m going to tell Luke about the Force sensitivity,” she said, “He knows more about training in the Force than I do.”

“Great. I look forward to Luke deciding he can raise our kid better than us, again,” Boba muttered, and Leia’s look was somehow simultaneously apologetic and admonishing.

“Of all the reasons I thought you’d try and kill my brother, I have to admit that I never saw attempted kidnapping as one of them,” she said, and Boba might have laughed if it wasn’t so ridiculously true. He turned away and this time Leia didn’t stop him from following Dr. Madari back the way they’d come. The child stirred awake in his arms, ears perking up as it took in their surroundings.

“Everything went well,” the doctor told him, “They’re doing great. They have a high white blood cell count from the treatments, but it’ll be easily reversible, and we can take care of it today.”

“You’ll have to… today? In the – the labs?” Boba asked, and he was less embarrassed by his panicked tone when she gave him an understanding look.

“I know they have significant trauma in medical settings. You’ll be able to stay with them the entire time.”

“That’s good,” Boba said, faint. So long as they could be with Din, they’d be okay. He was comforting; already, both the clones seemed to look to him for reassurance, recognized him as the safest place they’d ever been. It wouldn’t be like the lab, if Din was there.

The child was fully awake by the time they reached the office, babbling happily in Boba’s arms and calming his racing heart. Their child was fine, their child was back with them; everything else felt more handleable, knowing that. Dr. Madari opened the door for him, and Boba found Din waiting inside, the boys looking out the office window and talking quietly. Boba could read the relief Din felt at the sight of him, in the affectionate tilt of his head.

“Wait with the kids?” Din asked, as Boba drifted towards him, gaze on the boys. He was going to be left alone with them, and it hadn’t been that long ago, that he’d been alone with them in the lab, Din faraway and Boba alone amongst other clones. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” He sank down onto the couch, forced himself to look away from the clones, and up to Din. It would be fine, had to be fine; Din trusted Boba with them, and Din would be there for the important part, the lab part. Din reached to touch Boba’s cheek, like he was agreeing, promising.

As soon as Din left, though, one of the clones came over to see the child, who reached eagerly for him and suddenly, Boba’s arms were empty.

“What’s his name?”

“He… doesn’t have one, I guess,” Boba said, the child chattering over him happily like it had plenty more to say on the subject.

“Is it bad news?” the other clone asked, coming to join them and fixing Boba with a look that demanded all the worst answers he had to give. So that was Cade, then. Hax was absorbed in the child’s animated chirping. “That’s why she wouldn’t tell him in front of us?”

“I don’t think there’s bad news. Are you guys, uh… it was okay? Being in a doctor’s office again?” he asked, to an almost surprised look from Cade. Maybe he hadn’t realized Boba would understand, would remember, didn’t realize that he’d once left a cloning facility with the unshakeable fear of what a lab could do to him and how it could change him against his will, had fought violently until he was restrained and then sobbed and struggled as he was given a sedative, hysteria making him certain he’d wake up a different clone, no identity left at all.

“We’re good now,” Hax said, and Cade nodded with an agreement that didn’t reach his eyes.

They returned to look out the window, the child happy to join them, and Boba tried to stop fidgeting anxiously as he waited for the office door to open again. It took a while; maybe they were telling Din about Luke’s inevitable advice that the clones should be trained by the Jedi. Din wasn’t going to like hearing that, would be heartbroken at the thought of the kids being alone, without a family or a clan of their own. Din would fight to keep them.

As soon as Din returned, Boba could see the decision weighing heavily on his shoulders. Dr. Madari had come back with him, and as she sat the boys down and gently described a treatment they would have to go through, Boba watched Din’s restless uneasiness. So he’d heard the Jedi plan, then; Boba wanted to hold his hand, because Din would feel the kids’ struggle viscerally, heartbroken at the thought of sending them away alone. Boba scooped the child off the couch beside him and went to join Din in the doorway, but before he could do anything, Dr. Madari’s voice caught his attention.

“You’ll be in different rooms,” Dr. Madari’s was saying, and his stomach flipped at the words. “But your dads can go with you and stay the entire time.” That wasn’t what Boba had thought would happen, they were supposed to _both_ stay with Din, because Din was the one who would make it bearable. One look told Boba that at least Cade understood this to be the blow that it was; he still looked guarded, must have realized that one of them was going to have Din and the other wouldn’t.

“But I can’t help,” Boba whispered helplessly to Din, “Not like you.”

“Just hold his hand. You’ll comfort him by being there, I promise.” Din had so much else to worry about; Boba hated that he was adding this, was an unreliable partner right when Din needed someone solid. “You have a calming presence.”

“No I don’t.” Boba bit his lip, caught between convincing Din it wasn’t true so they could find another solution, and pushing through so Din wouldn’t have to deal with this.

“You do. Take care of my baby for me, okay? You’ll do fine,” Din said, and Boba glanced down at the child; at least that was something he could handle. “That one,” Din clarified, nodding towards Hax, and Boba’s heart sank with shame at his own misunderstanding. How could he be trusted with Din’s child if he didn’t automatically think of Hax as theirs the way Din clearly did?

“You guys ready?” Dr. Madari asked the clones; no one was asking Boba, but he definitely wasn’t ready, and suddenly, he was being left in a room with a wide-eyed clone who looked exactly the way Boba had felt all those years ago. The room smelled like a lab. The same lab? Or did all labs just smell the same? The child moved restlessly in his arms, unaffected by the setting that had a stranglehold on both Boba and Hax, and Boba set it down on the end of the bed when it began squirming.

“Hax, um. Are you… okay?” Boba didn’t know what to do, how to be _comforting,_ felt hopelessly detached. Hax was sitting on the edge of the bed, fidgeting restlessly, his eyes scared and familiar.

“It’s kind of scary,” Hax said, sniffling. “Maybe – maybe I can hold your hand?” The openly hopeful look he gave Boba was so deeply unfamiliar on his familiar face, as he asked for help in a way Boba had never managed. Boba could only nod and obey, moved to the chair by the bedside, reached to hold Hax’s shaking hand between his own. It was quiet, the soft sounds from the hallway a faraway background noise to the stillness. “Cade’s okay, right?” Hax asked. The child crawled over to squeeze in against Hax’s side, patting his arm with its tiny clawed hand.

“Yeah, he’s okay. He’s with Din, he’s okay.”

“Is that…?” Hax asked, and Boba nodded, before Hax had to come up with a description, half afraid of what it would be. _The one who wants to keep us,_ or _the one who already loves us._ The one who entrusted Boba with one of his three kids.

“Ba,” the child added, pointing towards Boba, as if to continue the introductions.

“Boba,” the correction just made the child chirp at him in irritation. “Yeah, I know. You’ve got it.” The child chattered some more, looking up at Hax for confirmation, and Hax sniffled, but gave a watery smile.

There was a knock on the door, and then Dr. Madari came in; Hax clutched Boba’s hand tighter at the sight of her, though she smiled warmly in their direction.

“I’m kind of freaked out,” Hax blurted, before Dr. Madari could say anything. She sat on a rolling chair and scooted to the bedside, set her hand on his forearm. Hax was looking at her like he was hoping for comfort, his odd, whole-hearted optimism so unlike anything Boba had ever felt.

“I completely understand,” the doctor said. “I’m going to do everything I can to make this feel differently than before. You’ve being very brave, and I promise this will help you.”

She talked through everything she did next, explaining even the tiniest steps: she brought out a blanket and spread it over Hax, leaving just one leg exposed by the knee, pant leg rolled up. The tray of instruments rattled when she rolled it closer, and Boba felt Hax’s flinch as though it was his own. The sounds, he knew, were the hardest to detach from earlier memories. The sounds, and the smells.

“It’s different,” Boba whispered, squeezing Hax’s hand, and Hax bit his lip, nodding even as his gaze remained fixed on the instrument table.

“Okay, honey,” Dr. Madari said gently, Hax’s gaze snapping to her, his free hand fisting anxiously in the blanket. “This is an intraosseous infusion. It goes into your bone so it can reach the bone marrow, because that’s where you produce white blood cells from. It’ll hurt a little more than a regular IV, but it won’t be much more. I’m also going to numb the area with the needle. I promise I’m not giving you anything that will hurt you. Can I start with the numbing and placing the needle?”

Hax nodded, sniffled. “Uh-huh.” He looked away fully, and the child patted his side, cooing up at him. Hax didn’t watch, as Dr. Madari administered anesthetic, inserted a needle, attached the line to the IV bag, softly narrating as she went. 

“All set,” Dr. Madari murmured, “You were very brave, honey. I’ll be back in an hour, okay?” It almost seemed okay; Hax was still, as Dr. Madari cleaned up the instruments, returned everything to its place, then closed the door behind her.

As soon as the door had shut, Hax started to cry. Shuddering, hard sobs that made Boba flinch in panic, look around for the cause.

“Hey,” Boba’s heart raced, and he leaned closer, nearly trembling from the spike of anxiety. “What’s wrong? Hax?” Hax just shook his head, but when Boba made a hesitant movement to reach for him, crumpled in easily, and suddenly he was sobbing into Boba’s shoulder. “Did something – is it –”

He glanced towards the IV, but nothing seemed to have changed, all that had happened was that the doctor had left the room. And – and wasn’t that always when the panic would set in, when the quiet settled over him, when he was left alone to wait, and the silence became crushing, the possibilities endless, because maybe the doctor would come back or maybe they wouldn’t, maybe he’d never get out again –

“We’ll be done soon,” Boba said, “Okay? Then we’ll get out of here, and it’ll be over. I know, this is the hard part, isn’t it?” Hax hiccupped a sob and nodded, one hand coming to fist in the front of Boba’s shirt, trying to pull him closer. The child whined in sympathy from between them, clung to Hax’s side and gave tiny, soothing sounds. “After this is over, we’ll get to leave, I promise. You’re okay.”

_My baby,_ Din had called Hax, and Boba tried to think what he would do if it was the child; he shifted closer, let Hax slump against him and pet a hand through Hax’s hair haltingly, encouraged by Hax’s sobs subsiding. “You’ll be okay, I’ve got you,” Boba murmured, because if Hax was Din’s child, then – then he was Boba’s, too. Boba didn’t understand how to handle him, this perfect copy of his seventeen-year-old self, but Hax reacted in ways entirely unlike Boba, looked at him with optimistic eyes and carried a hopefulness that people would be good, a clone somehow untouched by the dark hurting things Boba had always thought were part of his DNA. It made Hax less familiar, made him easier to love.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come yell with me about how sad and precious boba fett is on Tumblr at icehot13!


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